


Human Behavior

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e29 Operation - Annihilate, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Five human behaviors Spock did not understand, and one that he definitely did understand. Six-shot, revolving around the episode Operation - Annihilate! and all its aftermath.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a prompt for an old H/C Bingo Card spot of Stockholm Syndrome, which then morphed into this because my muse is as long-winded as she is unpredictable. I'm not pretending this is anything other than plotless H/C because that episode was sorely lacking in it.

**Title** : Human Behavior   
**Characters** : Spock, Kirk, various including McCoy, Peter Kirk  
 **Rating** : T for off-screen minor character death and related content   
**Word Count** : 29K+ total  
 **Warnings** : Spoilers for _Operation - Annihilate_! References a few deleted scenes from the script of TOS, no knowledge of which is necessary to understand the story.  
 **Summary** : **_Five human behaviors Spock did not understand, and one that he definitely did understand._** Six-shot, revolving around the episode _Operation - Annihilate!_ and all its aftermath. 

* * *

**1\. Stockholm Syndrome**

Humanity, as a race, was a most illogical species. Spock had spent many years in an effort to comprehend the subtleties of human communication, the intricacies of its physical and verbal humor, the sense – or lack of it – behind its actions…and had, even now, utterly failed. He simply was unable to grasp the logic behind many of the facets which were characteristic to this most fascinating of species.

Some such quirks, while he did not understand, he found to be amusing, such as Dr. McCoy's habit of snarling at his morning wake-up alarm (which was utterly unable to hear or obey the irate and indeed anatomically impossible demands the physician made of it). Some had a bit of twisted logic behind them, meaning he could at least follow the badly-connected train of thought, such as the reasoning behind the actions of monsters such as Earth's Adolf Hitler, and Tarsus IV's Kodos. Eugenics did hold a sort of warped logic, from the proper point of view; while he certainly did not approve or endorse their actions, he did understand them.

But some human behaviors he had either never encountered, or else had so rarely beheld that they remained utterly incomprehensible to his mind.

This peculiarity was one such behavior.

He had read the Chief Medical Officer's psychological diagnoses and reports on the condition of the inhabitants of Deneva following the satellite-oriented destruction of the neurological parasites which had infested the planet; and when the unfamiliar term popped up periodically in the assessments and psychological evaluations, he desired a more detailed description, and went to Sickbay accordingly to get one.

"While there’s still debate on the subject in circles not my expertise, in my medical opinion I would characterize it as at least some variation of Stockholm Syndrome, Mr. Spock," was the sighed answer to his inquiry, and McCoy's tired eyes looked even more morose. "I've never heard of it directed toward a non-sentient captor, and there’s still debate in xenopsychological circles about whether or not the syndrome is a legitimate medical condition, but the brain is a strange thing, and I’ve certainly seen stranger, I can tell you that much. What I can tell you with medical certainty, is a good part of those people down there are actually questioning why we killed those…monsters, like the one that got its teeth into you before we beamed back to the ship."

For the time being, he ignored the fact that the creature did not, in fact, possess teeth; likely, the physician was utilizing a metaphor. "Questioning…the organisms' destruction?"

"Exactly." McCoy slumped down into a chair, uncharacteristically not caring if his exhaustion were evident to his audience. "You should hear the things they're saying," he murmured. "That we basically murdered a whole race of creatures, that the things didn't really mean them any harm, it was their right to survive how they could, that if the colonists just did what the creatures asked that they were taken care of just fine, that they'd lived there for eight months and had learned to live in symbiosis…it's case after case, Mr. Spock. And there's nothin' at this point that we can really do about it. The planet's gonna need a whole team of psycho-therapists, and Starfleet's takin' its sweet time about putting one together. I’m not afraid to admit I’m out of my pay grade here."

"I understand what constitutes that mental aberration known as 'Stockholm syndrome,' Doctor, but I cannot comprehend such a mentality itself, and I have never heard of so many cases in conjunction," he replied, utterly at a loss.

“Neither have I. I wouldn’t be surprised if the shock of having the creature abruptly disengaged from the neural system did something to upset the chemistry of the brain, that’s the best explanation I can come up with. But we aren’t equipped to test for that; the medical transports will have to test the theory.”

The memory of what agony the monsters had caused in his own body and mind was enough for an internal shudder of reflexive sympathy. Blindness had, truly, been preferable to their influence; even death would have been, after a few more hours. Granted, his pain was due to the fact that he had fought the organisms at every step; possibly if he had submitted, the pain would have vanished, even leaving some sense of euphoria in its place, but still.

"The creatures inflicted such pain that even Vulcan pain management was incapable of conquering it for longer than a few minutes at a time. The creatures have, by the last tally, killed one-third of Deneva's adult population, and one-eighth of its children, primarily those old enough to be of use in the shipyards. How could any intelligent race believe freedom from such mindless torture and complete mental control merits sympathy for the captor?"

"Don't ask me to explain the human psyche _logically_ , Commander!" McCoy snapped wearily, rubbing his eyes. "I've got enough problems tryin' to keep one particular player in this whole drama from emotionally compromising himself until we get well away from here!"

"Of course, Doctor," he replied quietly. "I regret disturbing you."

"Spock –" The physician broke off, shook his head. "I'm sorry," he added simply, blue eyes blinking tiredly up at the Vulcan.

"It is quite understandable, Doctor. Please see to it that, once this is over, you take your own prescription and rest appropriately."

"That, Mr. Spock, is an order I will have absolutely no problem obeying."

* * *

Spock had once, under Christopher Pike's command, attended a large-scale wake on Planet R-52 in the Laurentian system; a volcano had suddenly erupted on a Federation science colony, burying nearly half the populated continent's surface area. It had been an immense tragedy, and one he would not soon forget.

But he had never attended one where the dead had numbered so many that their remains had been buried in family plots, due to a simple lack of time to properly embalm or cremate and inter each victim according to their cultural rites. The deceased numbered in the thousands; and what was worse, there were countless victims which had _not_ been buried over the eight months in which the parasites had infested the colony, and were simply in varying stages of decomposition – and rather than hold funerals in the Terran tradition for each, the governor of the colonists had simply declared today a day of memorial for the victims of the parasitic invasion.

Due to the sheer mass of people, the ceremony was only minutes from starting by the time he had made his tortuous way through the crowd to finally squeeze into place beside a green-gold dress uniform, which was wavering back and forth as its wearer uneasily shifted his weight from left to right foot. Jim flicked him a grateful, slightly relieved, look, before that and all other emotions were carefully folded away under a blank, bland mask of professional duty. Spock had seen the transition a few times before, that almost disturbingly easy slide from charismatic charm into _nothing_ \- and it never failed to remind him of the sun being hidden behind a storm cloud, light disappearing into a black hole. The captain's emotional control would do a Vulcan proud.

That fact was not reassuring in the least.

They were standing to the immediate right of the small platform erected for the speakers of the ceremony to stand upon. Governor Schival was to perform the memorial service, with his two Lieutenant-Governors each performing the cultural rituals required by the non-Terran colonists who had died. Schival had asked Captain Kirk to speak as well, and the human could not refuse the request, as the _Enterprise_ had been the ship which discovered the method of destroying the invaders.

Spock was well aware, after lightly brushing his fingertips over the tense muscles of the arm beside him, that Jim was dreading giving the address, the thought of it actually threatening to make him physically ill.

Technically, Spock was not supposed to be standing in the speakers' box. He was not about to leave it, and naturally no one would dare to ask Commander Spock of the _Enterprise_ to vacate his position. He, as the Terran saying went, _would like to see them try._

The area was filled with a mass of milling colonists, and after cautiously dropping his mental shields a fraction he was slightly alarmed at the rampant variety of emotions which assailed his telepathic senses. Pain and grief were to be expected, disbelief and shock as well, but this undercurrent of bitterness, anger…hatred, in some cases, was cause for concern.

The momentary lowering of his barriers had immediately indicated to him the precise locations of the _Enterprise_ crew which had beamed down in a show of support for their Captain; he knew without looking where McCoy was standing with Nurse Chapel and the boy, Peter Kirk, as well as knowing exactly where the rest of the command chain and crew were stationed at strategic points around the location. He refrained of course from any outward display, but resolved in a mental note to commend Mr. Scott for his intelligence and foresight in directing the crew to fan out with a sensible number of Security personnel, to be prepared in case of any disquiet arising.

The dropping of his shields had also alerted him to the fact that his captain was not faring as well as he wished his crew to believe. In the six days which had transpired since their first approach to Deneva, he was well aware the captain had not had more than three hours' sleep at a stretch at various points during the days and nights. Kirk had lost his brother and sister-in-law, and had been forced to face the idea of losing more than that if he made the wrong choice regarding the organisms. In the last forty-eight hours, Kirk and the _Enterprise_ had made runs to the other planets in the system, backtracking the spread of insanity which had sent them to the sector in the first place, and placing satellites in orbit around the infected planets.

They had returned to Deneva this planet's afternoon for the memorial ceremony, after which George and Aurelan Kirk's remains would be placed in the memorial park along with other victims whose living relations wished that to be their remembrance.

He raised his shields again reluctantly, for it was unethical to not do so, but kept a strict eye upon his captain. Schival's address droned on for slightly longer than was, in his opinion, in good taste given the crowd's mixed attitudes, but he could not fault the man for wishing the ceremony to be as thorough as possible for the families of the victims of the tragedy. The afternoon sun's intense rays beat down on the area, and he remained alert to the milling colonists' increasingly unhappy tempers which resulted from the rise in temperature.

James Kirk's face was uncomfortably flushed above the stiff collar of his dress uniform by the time he was to speak on behalf of the Federation – not as a grieving family member, he could not even be that today, but as an ambassador of the organization which sent the colonists to Deneva in the first place in the name of Science and Exploration.

Throughout this first hour of the service, the captain had been utterly silent, and had never once looked at Spock. Once, and only once, when the governor had mentioned that those who had died were those who, through sheer strength of will, had fought the most gallantly against the organisms, did Kirk stiffen, fists clenched tightly at his sides. Spock edged slightly closer, enough that their opposing shoulders brushed against each other with the satin rustle of dress fabric, and the rigid tension had faded slightly in the human after he had done so.

But now, it was Kirk's turn to speak, as a Starfleet representative and as the man responsible for providing the method of killing the parasites which had destroyed the colonists who were being memorialized today. Kirk mounted the platform amid the expectant silence which followed the governor's announcement, and turned to face the crowd at loose parade rest, his face composed and calm, sunlight glinting off the well-deserved medals he reluctantly wore on occasions such as these.

Only Spock, closer to the platform and at the precise angle to clearly view, could see that the man's hands were clenched so tightly behind his back that they were actually shaking.

" _Ex astris, scientia_ ," Kirk spoke up suddenly, and the murmurs that had rippled through the crowd as recognition set in died down. " _From the stars, knowledge_. That is the creed by which we of Starfleet live, you know that as well as I do. While not all of you have graduated from Starfleet Academy, you are nonetheless here, on this planet, in this star system, for one united, grand purpose – to gain knowledge from the stars."

The captain's face lightened slightly, as he warmed to a topic close to his heart. "That is why all of us – Captain, Midshipman, Scientist, Colonist – are standing here, today. That is the reason for which you decided to colonize this world; to further a dream that is, to many underdeveloped worlds, just that – only a dream. And _dreams_ , ladies and gentlemen, are worth living for."

Kirk's eyes glinted, and his voice dropped to a more subdued tone. "They are also, sadly, worth _dying_ for."

An unhappy murmur flickered through the crowd, and Spock saw the human's hands clench tighter behind his back.

"It is a less glamorous part of this business, yes – but it is unfortunately true," he carried on, the powerful tone which Spock had seen make nations bow to the inexorable force that was James T. Kirk ringing clearly in the courtyard. "We are not out here to be safe, we are not out here to perform cautious experiments and never seek new worlds and new life forms. We are not here," and his head snapped up in stiff attention, "to risk nothing, and therefore to go down into history, as _nothing_."

Spock had before seen this particular human sway an entire delegation of superior beings by the sheer power of his oratorical ability, had watched in stupefied mystification as this one small human could back down beings three times his size. But even such a dynamic personality could not fully control the disturbed mental processes of an unstable mob, and he felt the warning prickle of danger begin to flick gently at the back of his telepathic consciousness.

Kirk stood at ramrod-straight attention, his eyes raking the crowd. "Planetary colonization is a risky venture, as we are all aware – but it is an integral part of this expansion into the stars, the explorations that centuries ago our people only dreamed of! Your people who have been lost in this…catastrophe, are as much heroes of our cause as are any Federation officers who fall in battle aboard their starships." The captain's eyes softened, and his gaze flickered briefly over to his wide-eyed nephew standing well within McCoy's protective grip. "The Federation has issued its deepest condolences to those of you who have…lost family members, and friends, in the wake of this tragedy. They are the true heroes of this battle, not we who found the means of disposing of the threat."

Spock made no move, but mentally jumped to alert status as a wave of human anger washed threateningly against his shields. Fortunately, Kirk seemed to sense the change in the crowd – he had always been perceptive of moods, part of his skill as a leader – and simply stood for a moment in a silent salute of respect for the dead, before retreating to his place beside the raised platform, descending with the bland captain's mask still firmly affixed in place.

Governor Schival and his Lieutenant-Governors finished the memorial service, and at least Spock was somewhat relieved to see that while it was obvious something was wrong with the crowd, none of them had so little respect for the dead that they would destroy the solemnity of the memorial.

What happened afterwards was another story.

Once the ceremony had concluded, the family members who wished the cremated remains of their deceased to be sprinkled in the memorial park were permitted inside the roped-off area, to wander as they wished along the flower-sprinkled paths and softly rushing fountains, to select the location they felt best for their loved ones' final resting-place.

Spock watched, vacillating in uncertainty, as Peter Kirk walked up to take his place next to his uncle, carefully carrying a simple silver urn containing the remains of George and Aurelan Kirk. The Governor had specified that only family members were permitted into the park, simply for sake of space, but the look of barely-veiled panic he saw in his captain's expression was a plea for help if he ever saw one.

McCoy's extremely pointed glare, which had it been capable would have burned a hole through his head by now, added the impetus for him to step cautiously up to the two.

"Hullo, Mr. Spock," Peter Kirk greeted him, subdued but obviously not displeased with his presence; he and the child had had several long talks while confined to Sickbay following their recovery from their respective treatments.

He gravely inclined his head in greeting, and turned a questioning look toward his captain as the child moved toward the entrance of the park.

"Sir, the governor's request for family members only was quite clear –"

"Spock." The human was breathing shallowly, hands clenched tightly behind him in an effort to hide the fact that his carefully-strung composure, so rigid and unyielding for nearly a week, was in danger of crumbling. Kirk looked up at him finally, swallowed hard, and spoke. "Spock, you're the closest thing I have left to a brother, now. I don't care what the Governor said. I…" and it was obvious how much the admission chafed the human's pride, "…I need you. I don't like the look of some of this crowd." The man's eyes were worried, tense, reflecting his own unease. "If something gets out of hand, I'm going to need your level head, because I'm not exactly at my best right now."

He would never refuse such a request, even had he ever wished to do so. "As you wish," he replied gently, and received a look of almost pathetic gratitude before they hurried to catch up with the child.

The park was quiet as befitted its subject matter, the only sounds being quiet conversation and the distant sound of rushing water from somewhere behind the privacy hedges. Even the Denevan birds were rather quiet, trilling gently in the trees and bushes and occasionally chirping to break the stillness. The park itself was an agriculturally prolific area, filled with many kinds of varying-hued flora, and held many benches and secluded areas for privacy, as befitted its intentions.

The two humans were silent, the child looking about him with wide, sad eyes, and Kirk himself walking almost blindly, eyes downcast and posture so tense it seemed one wrong move might cause him to snap entirely. Spock was silent, out of respect for their behavior and also because he simply had no idea what might aid either of them; his earlier efforts aboard ship had been received well enough by the child but his captain had rejected them quite emphatically, almost uncharacteristically so.

Peter Kirk was on his way to dealing with the tragedy; his uncle was nowhere even close.

Finally the child stopped under the shade of a flowering tree, the ground carpeted with what Spock recognized as something quite similar to Terran cherry-blossoms. Peter cocked a questioning eye up at his uncle, and Kirk smiled for the first time.

"You remember the farm, then? I'd have thought you were too young," he spoke, lifting his head and closing his eyes as the wind brought down a dusting of silky petals to shower them.

"I 'member you falling out of the tree and Dad screaming his head off 'cause he thought you broke your neck," the child retorted, grinning despite the sadness evident in the blue eyes as he set the urn gently on one of the small stone shelves obviously placed under the tree for that purpose.

Spock silently edged himself backward several paces, ready to aid if needed but other than that only listening in silence.

The captain's face relaxed slightly as he chuckled. "Your mother nearly murdered me when she found out I'd taken you tree-climbing in the orchard. She was a mean woman with a wooden spoon."

The child giggled, and then the amusement faded slowly, painfully, from his expression, no doubt with the realization that he would never again see such a thing. The tousled head drooped, a lock of unruly red hair flopping down over his forehead, and for the first time Spock saw the boy begin to cry silently, one small fist scrubbing in helpless grief at his eyes as his breath hitched painfully.

He watched as James Kirk knelt in the petal-strewn grass in front of the child, careless of his dress uniform pants becoming stained with damp earth, and pulled the boy close, hugging him tightly as the child's tears finally came. The captain's face was carefully blank, betraying nothing, and while Spock recognized the necessity of remaining strong for the grieving child he could not help but see that it was not just Peter Kirk who needed such release.

Unsure of what exactly he should do, and unwilling to further eavesdrop, he edged slightly away from the tree to stand in the path, aimlessly examining and cataloguing the bright green insectoid which landed with a short click of hard-shelled wings on the front of his tunic.

Then he heard voices, their volume too loud in his opinion for such a sacred place, approaching through a copse of small elm-like trees.

He set the curious insect on a broad leaf of a nearby bush, and turned to regard the newcomers – a trio of men in the standard yellow or salmon-colored jumpsuits which were the clothing for the scientists with which George Samuel Kirk had worked. Perhaps they were merely coming to bury a fellow scientist, then, who had no family…but they carried nothing which would house the remains.

He could not specify a reason, illogical as it was, but he felt a sudden unease, and turned on instinct to see that Kirk and the child were still unaware of the men's approach. He had heard Jim say once that something 'made his skin crawl,' but had never understood the feeling until now, the unease that warned him to move himself to block the path, instead of standing courteously to one side as he had been.

Within twenty-three seconds, the three men had reached the path, and were looking at him in some surprise.

"Who're you?" the foremost asked, small dark eyes glittering at him in mild hostility.

The speaker was swatted on the back of the head by the second human, a slightly more intelligent-looking creature with blond hair and a wary expression. "He's Captain Kirk's Vulcan First Officer, Charlie. Don't be such an idiot."

Spock heartily agreed with the command, but did not say so.

"Commander, we're looking for Captain Kirk," the second man said, posing it as a question instead of the statement it was.

"The Captain is currently with his nephew, paying his last respects to his deceased brother and sister-in-law." Spock regarded the men warily, for it was obvious they were not family members and as such he had no idea how they had managed to get in the park, much less find one man among so many.

"Still?" the third human spoke, looking bored. "How long does it take?"

Spock refused to respond to the rude inquiry; encouraging such idiocy by response was foolishness.

The first human edged to the left, his progress blocked by a thick hedge, and tried to see around the Vulcan's unmoving figure. "Look, Commander, let's be reasonable; we don't have a lot of time here before we have to get back to cleaning up the lab, and I want to ask Kirk a few things," he said.

"Whatever they might be, I am certain they will wait until Captain Kirk is finished with his private business." And if he placed a bit too much emphasis on _captain_ and _private_ , he could not find it in himself to regret the tiny flare of human irritation. Even a Vulcan had limits.

The men scowled, and for an instant something chilled, clammy, unreasonable poked against his mental shields; something was not right with this man's mental signature. He tensed instinctively. "Perhaps you could relay your questions through me, and the captain will return his answers when he is able to do so," he suggested.

The humans seemed to entirely miss the icy edge in his tone, for they only looked angry. "Well sure, if you just want to ask him why he decided to kill off thousands of those creatures we've been living with for all these months!" The speaker, Charlie, had raised his voice to an unacceptable level. Spock briefly contemplated the diplomatic repercussions for nerve-pinching a Federation scientist in a planet's burial park.

The second man spoke up, earnestly. "They weren't really hurting anyone, unless you were too stupid to cooperate with them. Once we understood them and wanted to help, they didn't do anything to us. You people shouldn't have just destroyed them all. An entire species!"

Spock felt a brief surge of sickness at the thought that this reason was why these men were still alive, and stronger, nobler men like Sam Kirk were dead; a lack of will had ensured survival, and those strong enough to fight what was happening to them had died for their efforts.

He was dismayed to hear footsteps on the path behind him; Jim had no doubt heard the raised voices.

"Is there a problem here, Mr. Spock?" The captain's voice sounded in his ear, calm and coolly disinterested, but he was not deceived. No smaller footsteps had accompanied the man; he must have instructed the child Peter to remain behind at the tree.

He shifted slightly so that Jim could see, but not enough that the captain could move in front of him on the narrow path; he was going to remain a barrier between these two forces.

"Captain Kirk?"

Kirk eyed the human with a narrowed gaze. "Yes?"

"We worked with your brother, George," the second man offered, more diplomatic than Charlie had been thus far.

"And?" Kirk's expression did not change; still in place remained the cool mask of a diplomat, the serene façade of an unruffled Federation representative.

"I think you ought to know, those creatures weren't really trying to hurt us, Captain."

"George just couldn't understand them, wouldn't do what they asked us to do – that's why they killed him," the third man added, oblivious to the fact that the captain's face was slowly leeching color as he spoke. "If he had just stopped fighting them, they wouldn't have killed him."

"They didn't deserve to be exterminated like some pest infestation!" Charlie interjected irritably, glaring in unveiled hostility at the captain.

Spock heard the shallow inhalation behind him, felt the man tense to the point that he would certainly snap in another moment's time, would do or say something he would certainly regret later.

He smoothly stepped fully in front of Kirk, interposing himself between the mentally disturbed scientists and his captain. "Your concerns are duly noted, gentlemen; but this is not the time and place to discuss them," he intoned in what he had been told by a well-meaning Ensign Chekov was a tone that could make junior officers…lose control of their bodily functions. "Should you feel Starfleet need be informed of your views, you may submit them through the proper channels via the proper methods."

"Now look, Mr. Spock, we just –"

"This interview is concluded, _gentlemen_." And Surak forgive him for the menace he allowed to seep into the words (and the slight telepathic shove of _rageangerprotectiveness_ he sent their direction), but the efforts were successful.

The men gaped, open-mouthed, and then fled along the path back into the trees, toward the entrance.

He stood, watchful of their return, and in those ten seconds mentally composed a report to forward to McCoy regarding this deplorable state of mental instability, until he could no longer hear their footsteps among the trees.

Then, he was somewhat startled to feel a sudden warm pressure on a small area of his back, just below his shoulder, for a brief instant. A small, despairing sigh fluttered into the air.

James Kirk had slumped forward to for just a moment rest his forehead against the cool fabric of his First's dress uniform, and Spock could feel in that brief contact the gratitude and relief that sang through the human's weary mind. Then a moment later the man had straightened up again, all exhaustion carefully shelved in the fact of professionalism.

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," the human said quietly, and then returned to where he had left his nephew under the blossoming pseudo-cherry tree.

To terrify those who disturbed the well-being of his captain was only logical; thanks were, therefore, unnecessary.

Besides, he reflected with something as close to regret as a Vulcan could be permitted to approach, he had done nothing that would truly help; a state which he vowed to rectify in the near future.


	2. Chapter Two

**II. Childhood Resilience**

He had silently stood guard over his captain and the child for nearly an hour, after which time they retired from the memorial park to give privacy to another family who desired to utilize the tree as their loved one's final resting-place. Spock was, he would not deny, pleased to see that Dr. McCoy had remained well within eyesight of the entrance to the park. He was accompanied by a squad of Security guards in dress scarlets, who immediately closed in before and behind them as they made their egress.

Kirk's eyes widened a fraction as Kevin Riley and Jeffery Garrovick saluted with appropriate solemnity and fell into place before their captain, a barrier between him and anyone who intended to intrude upon the privacy of the _Enterprise_ 's commander. Spock favored the two who brought up the rear with a curt nod of approval, again mentally noting a commendation to Montgomery Scott for his foresight in choosing whom to send; he had not thought of need for protection against a human mob, as the idea of desecrating a memorial site or day of remembrance would never occur to a Vulcan.

Peter Kirk waved as their CMO approached; the child had, for some reason utterly incomprehensible to Spock, attached himself to the doctor like a Euridian leech-worm during the six days he had spent aboard the _Enterprise_ before their return to Deneva. Whatever his faults, McCoy was still a healer, and a father, and perhaps that was what had attracted the boy to the gentle physician.

Now, McCoy smiled down at the child, after nodding in acknowledgment to their silent captain, and the child smiled back. "How're you doing, young fella?" the physician asked, accent more pronounced due to weariness.

"'M okay, Dr. Bones." The words were accompanied by a small shrug, and Spock saw a brief smile glimmer across the captain's face, for the child had picked up on McCoy's nickname at some point and the physician had never had the heart to correct him.

The doctor turned to Kirk, asking something to which the captain smiled sadly and shook his head, responding so quietly Spock could not overhear.

Which event left him free to hear snatches of conversations that were occurring in various pockets around them.

"Mr. Garrovick," he said in a low tone, without taking his eyes off his scanning of the crowd.

"Yes, sir?"

"I trust such measures will not be necessary, but in the event they become so; on my order, you will call for an emergency beam-out of the captain and his nephew to the _Enterprise_. In the event that I am not present: if this crowd, as you would say, _grows ugly_ , you shall take the initiative and give the order yourself, if necessary without clearing said order with the captain. Am I understood?"

The young man's eyes hardened, and he glared at the closest knot of belligerent colonists. "Clearly, sir. You think there's going to be trouble, Commander?"

"I believe that is what I just said, Ensign," he replied dryly, and could only hope that his precautions would remain just that – only precautions.

"Look out, mister!"

Suddenly, his vision had only just time to register a blur of yellow and pink before an object of pliable semi-solidity struck his torso just above the waist, bouncing off with an airy thud. A child's plaything – some sort of rubbery ball, apparently – rolled a few inches away and stopped at the feet of a wide-eyed human child.

It had not been an inconvenience, much less had caused damage; and even if it had, the low laugh he heard from the captain at the sight of his raised eyebrows would have negated any resulting unpleasantness from the encounter.

The little one could not be more than two or possibly three years of age, with a face full of enormous blue eyes and curls the color of Vulcan sand at mid-day. She stood, one finger in a small mouth, staring up wide-eyed…at his ears.

Sighing was a human action, and therefore he did not indulge in it.

An older child, a dark-haired human boy about Peter Kirk's age, flew up to them from the side just in front of a woman in her late twenties, and the family resemblance among the three was obvious.

"Awful sorry, mister, I didn't mean to kick it that hard…holy _cow_ , what're you?"

He raised an eyebrow, amused at the horrified look on the young mother's face; there was no need, for curiosity was one emotion that was both permitted and accepted in all species. But Peter Kirk piped up from behind him before he could offer explanation.

"He's a Vulcan, Tommy! They're like the smartest people in the galaxy!"

"Hardly," he interjected calmly, and saw the young woman relax slowly as he appeared to be unoffended by the child's inquisitiveness. Quite the opposite, as many young ones of alien species viewed strangers with distrust rather than this refreshing curiosity. "There exist many life-forms which surpass Vulcans in areas of intelligence and imagination."

"Yeah but you have cooler ears I betcha," Peter informed him, quite seriously, and Spock heard Lieutenant Riley apparently ingest a passing insect.

Jim's lips were twitching suspiciously, and Dr. McCoy was making no such effort to hide his cackling. "James Kirk, ma'am," the captain spoke, smiling at the young woman. "Do you know my nephew?"

Flustered, the woman tucked a stray curl behind her left ear and nodded. "I'm Ariel Brown. You're Aurelan's brother-in-law, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," he replied softly.

"I work with my husband at the recycling plant four blocks from the labs," Ariel said, eyes soft. "Aurelan is…was, my day-sitter for Julia and Tommy."

A sudden crease appeared between the captain's sandy brows, bespeaking of pain well-hidden from spectators. "I'm…so sorry," he whispered.

The woman glanced up from where she had checked to make sure the children were still nearby, obviously confused. "Whatever for?" she asked, dark eyes wide with bewilderment.

"For…" Spock saw the man pause, a sudden realization lighting the still, sad eyes for a moment, and he wished to personally thank this woman for her innocent inquiry. There was nothing any of them could have done differently, nothing that would change what had happened, nothing that would make guilt deserved for any of them; and the first step to healing would be for Jim to see that and admit it to himself.

"Captain Kirk," and the woman spared a moment to look down at her toddler, who was still staring at them wide-eyed. "Those… _things_ , were everywhere. I and my husband were both affected…and so were my children. My _baby_ , Captain, one of those things was _inside my_ _baby_." Her dark eyes sparked with the fury only nature itself understood, the truly terrifying sight of a female protecting her young. "If you had not found a way to kill those horrible creatures they would have murdered my _children_."

Blinking far too rapidly, finally Jim's gaze dropped to the little one staring up at them, and then flicked back to his nephew, who was crouched on the ground beside the other human child. Peter was currently in the middle of a (highly-exaggerated) account of the workings of the cross-pollination experiments in the _Enterprise_ 's Botany Lab Four, complete with diagrams scribbled on the pavement with a piece of chalk produced from he knew not where.

Hazel eyes moved upward to meet his own, and while Spock was not overly religious he thanked any deity who might be listening that he was still capable of sight; that would have been one more burden that this human did not deserve to bear.

The tiny girl took two toddling steps closer, and yanked firmly on the leg of the captain's uniform trousers. "Up," she commanded severely, reaching up with one small hand.

"Um," was the highly intelligent response, and the captain cast a helpless look at his crew, who were studiously turning their eyes to watch for any signs of trouble in the nearly deserted square. Finally Kirk glanced back to the woman, who was smiling. "May I?"

Ariel laughed. "Of course, Captain. And," she added hesitantly, as the man dropped to one knee to swing the toddler up into his arms, careful to not tangle her curls on the sharp edges of his medals, "if you've no plans for the night…Tommy and Peter haven't seen much of each other, it might be good for them to have a bit. We live just 'round the corner from…from your brother's home."

"Ooo," Julia commented succinctly, one tiny finger tracing the Silver Palm and Cluster (1) which was fastened to the captain's uniform, and the man's features softened as he looked down at the little one.

"I'm sure you have a hundred other things to do aboard your ship, Captain…but we'd at least like to offer you some coffee, if you can't stay for more," Ariel finished slowly, toying with the small handbag she held.

Kirk looked distinctly uncomfortable, hiding his eyes behind the mop of red curls atop the baby's head. "I appreciate the offer, Mrs. Brown. But –" he broke off suddenly, and Spock followed his gaze over to the two young boys, who were engrossed in a small copy of the Starfleet Academy cadet handbook some crewman on board had laughingly given Peter earlier in the week. "Well," the captain amended, closing his eyes over the child's head for a moment, "it will be good for him…for a while, at least. If it's no trouble, ma'am."

"None," she assured him. Then, as the captain awkwardly looked from side to side at his companions, she continued. "You are all welcome, if you can be spared, Captain."

"Mr. Riley, if you and your men will beam back to the ship," Kirk spoke over the child's head, and though the tone was calm and business-like his eyes were warm. "Do not think for a moment that I don't appreciate what you've done here today, gentlemen."

"Pleasure, sir," the young man nodded, saluting smartly for the benefit of the children watching. "Mr. Scott, four to beam up."

"If you've nothing crucial in your laboratories which will blow up my ship in a few hours, gentlemen, then I'd like the pleasure of your company. Doctor?"

This was good. Spock was more aware than anyone else aboard just how strained the relationship between the captain and his CMO had been, following the full-spectrum light test and its disastrous results. Jim had apologized for blaming McCoy for blinding his First Officer, and yet the rift had not fully healed; mainly due to lack of sleep, grief and stress keeping them all far too busy to speak plainly.

A rare smile crossed the doctor's face. "Be glad to, Jim," he replied with obvious sincerity. "Very kind of you too, ma'am," he added, turning toward Ariel. "Are your children fully recovered from the effects of the parasites?"

"Quite, Doctor, thank you; there was a residual fever in both of them while the organism was dying, but they are quite healthy now – isn't that right, baby girl?"

"Na," the little one responded, giggling into the shoulder of the captain's dress uniform.

The look on Jim's face, when she spit up all over him two minutes and fifteen seconds later, was priceless, even to a Vulcan.

* * *

The 'coffee' had, in true human form, turned into a small meal and then after-dinner conversation; and while such intimacy with humans would not be his first choice for a way to pass the evening, he was after all a diplomat's son and as such gave no indication that he was ill-at-ease.

They had stayed in the Brown home past sundown now, which was early in the evening this time of the planet's cycle, and the house was lit warmly by almost an abundance of lamps and solar-powered lights. Ariel's husband, Paul, had explained that it was a standard precaution in the colony, to keep the parasitic creatures out of their houses at night in an effort to protect the children and few lucky adults who had not been infected. Old habits were hard to break in any species, and he understood the humans' need for an abundance of light, after having endured the darkness of one of those creatures himself. It had taken him nearly three days before he did not feel a twinge of discomfort in meditating amid complete darkness, and that was with Vulcan logic. These humans had no such assistance.

What he could not comprehend, however, was how easily the child, Peter Kirk, had thrown off the melancholy and grief he had shown earlier. The boy was currently flying across the room, a small replica of a Klingon Bird of Prey in his hand, shouting at the top of his lungs and making what were most likely supposed to be the sound effects which accompanied a phaser blast. The other child, Tommy Brown, was holding a small model of a Starfleet vessel, his dark head bent over it in rapt attention as the captain of the _Enterprise_ , sprawled on the floor in a woolen sweater borrowed from their host while his jacket was drying out, explained the weak points in the hull and how the nacelles powered the vessel.

"See, it won't work like that," the captain was saying. "You can't just turn it on and off like a light switch, Tommy. The matter-antimatter mix has to be just right, or you'll blow your ship to bits. Unless you have a Vulcan aboard, in which case he might be able to come up with a formula for a cold-core start," he amended, smiling. (2)

"Then you're dead, Tommy!" Peter Kirk shouted, jumping off a floppy, plasticene-pellet-filled chair and sprawling in a heap at the other young one's feet. "Krshhhhhhht! We've shot out your Engineerin' section, so surrender!"

"Well, fine!"

"No, no, no," the captain chuckled, reaching up a hand and taking the model Bird of Prey from his nephew. He tapped it with one instructive finger. "One, Klingons don't usually take prisoners in a space battle. And two: as for you, young man – Starfleet officers don't surrender to _anyone_ unless there’s an extremely good reason, you got that?"

"Whaddo I do, then?" the other child fairly wailed, looking helplessly at Kirk.

"Blow 'em up soon as you see 'em," was Peter Kirk's sagely advice.

"Blo!"

"Here, here, get the civilian out of this briefing," Kirk chuckled, indicating the toddler who had wandered past Spock's legs into the room, a ragged plush bear in one small hand. "Look here, squirt," he added, sending his nephew a mock glare, "you don't ever just shoot at someone without warning, understood? You would hail the vessel and ask to speak to their commander, Tommy."

"Yeah and then I'd shoot your nacelles off!"

" _Peter_."

"Well I _would_ , if I was a Klingon!"

"What do I do then?" Tommy asked, gazing helplessly down at the Starfleet-model ship in his small hands.

Kirk grinned and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This is what you do. You get your Chief Engineer up to the Bridge, and you have him create a false sensor reading to broadcast, making it look like your warp engines are about to explode. Because if that happens, you'll destroy everything in the sector, _including_ that Bird of Prey."

Footsteps. "Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, Doctor," he responded, not taking his eyes off the scene in the room before him.

"And you have your Communications Chief send out a fake distress signal to Starfleet, telling them you're about to blow yourself into the next galaxy, and…"

"If you have a minute, I need to speak with you." The words were devoid of any malice or even teasing, and that alone was indication of the gravity of the physician's intent.

He turned and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Regarding?"

"Regarding the health of a crew member, and don't act like you don't know exactly who I'm talkin' about," McCoy responded tartly. "Leave 'em in there and come out here for a minute."

He slipped silently away from the door, knowing that the captain probably had not even realized he was standing in the shadows, watching. McCoy led the way past the open living area where the Browns were talking quietly in one corner near the holographic fireplace, out to the vestibule.

"Anderson in Engineering sliced his hand and wrist open pretty bad. I'm on my way up to do minor surgery on the ligaments because he's allergic to almost all the anesthetics; have to monitor him closely and I don't want Chapel doing it," the physician told him, checking the chronometer on the wall as he withdrew his communicator. "That leaves you to take care of those two in there," he added, jerking one thumb backward toward the small playroom which housed the children and their captain.

He was uncertain what the expected reply to that was, and so settled for nodding.

This only served to irritate the physician, apparently, for blue eyes rolled expressively toward the low ceiling. "That means he's gonna need you at some point, Spock! He's not dealt with any of this the way he should! The kid is going to be fine I think, but –"

"Yes, the child," he mused, gently interrupting what could have escalated into a full-blown altercation which certainly would have been overheard by the occupants of the small apartment. "I am…slightly puzzled, by Peter Kirk's behavior, Doctor. Are you certain he is in the mental state he should be?"

McCoy sighed, a weary, dismal sound in the stillness. "Mr. Spock, children – human children, at least – are resilient. They accept change, assimilate it, much better than human adults. They recover more quickly from trauma, are able to forgive and forget more readily, and can basically just adapt to anything more quickly than a human adult, if given the time and the help to do it."

Spock nodded, cataloguing this information.

"He's had help from you, from me, from Jim – and he's begun the grieving process already. It's a good thing, that he's in there playin' like he is with someone his own age; it shows he's going to be okay. This…euphoria, of normality, isn’t going to last forever, but let him have tonight, and as long as it will last. The kid will be fine."

"And you are implying that the captain is not?"

"You bet your pointed ears I am!" McCoy hissed. "He's been so worried about that kid and the mission cleanup that he hasn't even started taking care of himself yet! Adults take a lot longer to recover from things like this than children do, Spock."

"That may be; however, I am still uncertain as to your purpose in summoning me out here, Doctor."

"If you could just pretend for a minute that you _care_ more than a – a box of _rocks_ , you might be able to figure it out!"

"Really, Doctor McCoy."

Suddenly the physician's eyes went wide, and then he slumped against the floral-papered wall of the vestibule. "What on God's green earth am I _saying_?" he murmured.

All human have their methods of coping, and Spock had long ago realized that this particular fiery human was no exception to the rule. Humor, rather than retaliation, he had found in his experimentation was always a better approach, and he applied the technique here.

"We are not _on_ 'God's green earth,' Doctor," he intoned dryly. "And as you seem to have forgotten that fact, might I suggest you beam up to the _Enterprise_ , perform your minor surgery on Ensign Anderson, and then retire for the night?"

"Sent to my room for bein' rude, am I?" Spock's right eyebrow crept upward, and the physician chuckled. "That’s fair enough, Mr. Spock. But before I go, the one thing I wanted to tell you about when I pulled you out here."

"Proceed."

The physician glanced cautiously back toward the playroom, which was now reverberating with an verbal mimicry of a space battle, together with a dismayed wail from two-year-old baby human lungs. "I've been talkin' to the boy, Peter, all week. I'm a doctor, not a pediatric counselor, but just the same I've been talkin' to him about the whole mess and so on."

"And?"

"He told me how Sam and Aurelan were infected; how Jim's brother died, Spock."

Spock nodded slowly. "Does the captain know of this?"

"I doubt it; he's not spoken a word about either of them this whole week – another thing that's not healthy, Spock. But anyway," the physician waved a tired hand in dismissal, "Sam and Aurelan were affected pretty early on in the eight months. They didn't fight it, according to Peter, because the parasites threatened to then infect the boy if they kept fighting. But then when they found out the _Enterprise_ was in this sector, Sam Kirk decided the risk was worth it; Starfleet had to know, or more people would die because of those monsters. He tried every chance he could to get a message through to the _Enterprise_ all of that week before we approached Deneva."

"The _Enterprise_ encountered that heavy ionic storm off Delta Phoenicia, which caused a communications blackout for three days and serious malfunctions for another twenty-eight hours," Spock supplied, though the inference was not really necessary; the conclusions were obvious. "We never received the messages."

"No," McCoy sighed. "The parasites finally killed him the day we approached the system; just a couple of hours later Aurelan then tried to answer on the private channel Jim has with them, but…well, you saw how much those things liked _that_ show of defiance."

"And the child?"

"He was stung just before we broke into the house," the doctor answered sadly. "Aurelan apparently was trying to keep the things out, away from Peter, but couldn't quite do it; the kid had just passed out from shock due to the attack when we heard the woman screaming there on the planet. You can figure out the rest."

"I believe I can," he replied quietly. George Samuel Kirk had died trying to get the word out, scant hours before help arrived, and his wife had been killed by the neurological destroyers while trying to protect her child; those two, among so many like them, had deserved a more fitting end than that which Fate had dealt them.

McCoy's communicator chirped. "McCoy here."

_"Y’said fifteen minutes, Doctor; Anderson's stable enough, just waitin' for his surgeon to show up. Are y’ready for transport?"_

"Yeah, I'm ready, Scotty. Spock," he added, stepping a safe distance away from the Vulcan. "Jim's still a little awkward around me, after all that happened in Sickbay with the parasites and the light test and all that. He's gonna need you, and _I_ need you, to help him."

If he knew how, he would have done so days ago – could the human not see that?

"I know you're not sure how," the physician continued, raising the communicator to his lips, "but we both need you to try. One to beam up, Scotty."

_"Aye, sir."_

"Just do your best, Spock," McCoy said quietly. "Energize."

The physician began to disappear in the shimmering effects of the transporter beam, leaving him alone in the lamp-lit vestibule. Behind him, the sounds of playtime had died down, only a low murmur emanating from the playroom. He could hear the Brown couple still discussing the events by the fireplace in the living area, and caught several familiar names mentioned a few times in their discussion; they were wondering whether Peter would be staying on Deneva or returning to Terra – something that perhaps Jim had not yet considered, or considered asking the boy what he preferred.

"Bah-bye," a voice sniffled from down by his knees as McCoy completed de-materialization, and he looked down to see the human toddler standing there, looking with wide-eyed interest at the transporter pattern-echo as it faded from view.

"Indeed," he hummed softly, mind still on the other occupants of the playroom.

The child blinked. From the touch of the small hand which gripped for steadiness to his trouser leg, he could sense the swirl of baby-emotions that the child felt: _security_ , _warmth_ , _home_ , _love_ , _safety..._

The sacrifice had been dear, but worth it, to rid the galaxy of such monsters, to ensure no other beings would be forced to undergo such inhumane, indescribable torture. Someday Jim would be able to see that, and would be able to think of it without pain.

For now, however, he must learn enough about the human process of dealing with grief that he could capably guide his captain through said process; and he would not learn such by standing here with a sleepy baby human.

"Come, _pi'skilsu_ ," he murmured, and turned back into the house, to the humans it contained. (3)

A small hand wrapped around his fingers, warmth curling against the chill. And if a human child could trust him, as he could sense this young one did, then perhaps he might be successful with a so difficult, and yet so very important, human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Starfleet Silver Palm with cluster was one of the many commendations James Kirk received throughout his career; a partial list can be heard in the episode Court Martial and the entire list can be read on Kirk's page of Memory Alpha.  
> (2) See the episode The Naked Time, set in Season One before Operation Annihilate.  
> (3) Pi'skilsu is, in a literal translation from the Vulcan language, little fighter (as in one who overcomes an adversary, is victorious).


	3. Chapter Three

**III. Saying "I'd rather be alone" when the opposite is true**

Ariel Brown was just returning the captain's now-clean uniform tunic to him when he returned to the family room. The two young boys sat close together on the well-worn couch, tousled heads bent over a book of starship schematics, and barely glanced up at Spock's re-entry.

"Thank you," Kirk said, slipping the tunic back on over his undershirt, careful to avoid snagging the medals dangling off the fabric. "And thank you for your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Brown; I believe it was very good for my nephew."

"Ma," Julia declared after toddling over to the adults.

"I think that's a _you're welcome_ ," the woman chuckled, lifting the infant and holding her close.

"Peter, time to put that stuff away. Where's McCoy?"

This last had been directed at him, and Spock indicated the vestibule. "Ensign Richards from Engineering was injured and required close supervision under local anesthetic."

"That boy," Kirk sighed, and shook his head. "If he wasn't such a brilliant technician I'd transfer him over to Archiving just for his own safety. Well, thank you again, Mrs. Brown," he added, turning back to the woman. "We'll be in touch with you before the _Enterprise_ breaks orbit."

"Captain..." She trailed off uncertainly, but continued at Kirk's questioning look though she lowered her voice. "What will happen to Peter?"

"I…" the captain swallowed, looking faintly lost. "Honestly hadn't thought about it yet. I suppose he'll go back to Terra, to live with my mother, or perhaps one of his step-brothers."

Ariel nodded, silent understanding clear in her expression. "Just, don't take him without letting him say goodbye, that's all I'd ask, Captain."

Kirk's lips tightened. "Certainly not."

Though busy ensuring that the child had retrieved all items he had brought into the house (how in the galaxy the boy had fit all those odds-and-ends in his small pockets was a minor temporal miracle), Spock had not missed the conversation and did not wonder at the fact that the captain had not yet considered the ramifications of the boy's future welfare. He was not aware if Kirk's brother had even left instructions or a will stating what was to be done with the child; all would need to be decided in the very near future, for Starfleet would not permit them to remain in orbit indefinitely. Indeed, he made a mental note to ascertain the status of the captain's possible bereavement leave, as the 'Fleet was notoriously negligent in approval for such things when it suited their purposes.

But he could see from the look upon Kirk’s face, that the present would not be the time to inquire after either personal matter; for now, a return to the ship and its familiarity would be the wisest course of action for all concerned.

The boy was silent during the walk outside to the beam-up coordinates, eyeing the shadows with well-founded unease; but otherwise he gave no indication of distress. Upon returning to the ship, Peter took himself off to Sickbay, where his temporary quarters had been set up under McCoy's fatherly care.

Strangely enough, Spock watched with concern, the captain seemed to barely notice that the child was navigating the ship without supervision. Kirk barely nodded and waved a goodnight as the boy entered the turbolift after a brief look back. Because the human appeared so completely lost in thought as to not notice Spock's gentle guidance to his quarters, he thought it not inexcusable that he activate the ship's computer Security Code Gold One, which would inform him of any and all of the captain's movements throughout the night. Such a breach of privacy was ordinarily invasive and as a rule unacceptable, but in this case he deemed the cause sufficient.

And, shortly after ship's midnight, when the alert flashed up on his computer monitor, to inform him that the captain was no longer aboard the _Enterprise_ , he knew the precaution had been justified.

Had the computer not alerted him, a worried Kevin Riley's message five minutes later from the Transporter Room would have, and it was not a quarter of an hour after that, when he materialized on Deneva at the same coordinates which had been the landing location of the captain. He was not surprised to find that they lay in the middle of a deserted street, just meters away from the Kirk home.

Unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, the house had only one light on rather than the complete illumination of the others, where the colonists were yet to break the habit of fearing that which came in the night. The solitary glow in itself told him what he needed to know.

The door was not locked; and why should it be, for the colonists were understandably still too petrified to leave their homes during darkness. Spock hesitated, one hand already poised to push the door open, and for an instant doubted the wisdom of his actions. On the three occasions this week when he had attempted to draw out the captain regarding his yet unreleased grief, he had been rebuffed with a ferocious anger which was highly uncharacteristic of the human. Even now, Kirk had made it clear to Lieutenant Riley that he wanted no Security guards following him, despite the fact that the order was breaking regulation. Riley had been sensible enough to ignore that countermand, and had comm-ed the First Officer off the record as soon as the captain had dematerialized. Spock was not a Security guard, and yet he was aware of the spirit of the order. Kirk would either be furious or else resigned to his presence at this moment, neither of which was the optimal scenario.

But the idea of facing one incensed Dr. Leonard H. McCoy and reporting failure to at least make the attempt was far more disconcerting than confronting a very stubborn human starship captain.

He shut the door behind him loudly enough to alert the house's occupant.

"You're late, Commander," a cool voice floated through the archway which divided the front room from the kitchen and living areas.

He paused in the half-gloom, somewhat mystified.

"I'd have thought you'd be here ten minutes ago, Mr. Spock. You really thought a Gold One was necessary?"

The words were mildly censuring, but not belligerent; Kirk was more resigned than angry, which was an improvement upon his previous state.

Spock moved silently through the deathly still house, toward the lit back room from whence the voice emanated. No answer, no refutation or defense was necessary, and they both knew it; he would not apologize for his actions and this man knew better than to reproach him for them.

He paused in the doorway, waiting for unspoken permission to enter, and Kirk glanced up. The human was in the process of sorting a sheaf of old-fashioned paper documents; obviously Jim was not the only Kirk who held a fondness for old Terran writing materials. But it was the presence of a pair of modest, wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the human's nose which arrested his attention. He blinked.

A small grin tugged at the corner of the human's mouth. "I think they make me look smarter, don't you?"

"An unnecessary effect, as we are both aware of your genius-level intelligence quotient."

"I’ll take that as a yes."

He relaxed, seeing that, for the present at least, common sense had overridden the captain's defiance toward his interference. His own lips twitched, mirroring the not-quite-amusement. "As you wish, Captain."

Kirk smiled briefly, and removed the lenses. "I don't really need them, not yet anyway; perhaps I will later in life. Allergic to Retinax D," he added, seeing Spock's momentary puzzlement.

"Then…"

"Sam needed them; the allergy runs in the family, and he was mildly near-sighted," Kirk murmured, carefully folding the glasses and replacing them in a soft case atop what looked to be a legal document.

And then silence fell, a highly awkward state which only increased Spock’s unease. Why had he followed this man, with no plan in place and utterly no idea of what he could do to in any way ease the human's burden?

But, true to form, Kirk finally took pity on him and rescued him from his awkward stance just inside the door. "Sit down if you like, Mr. Spock. I'm not going to bite your head off again."

Now was not the time to pretend ignorance of the expression, and he did not attempt it. Slowly advancing, he finally chose the seat beside the human rather than the empty one across the small kitchen table.

Jim raised an eyebrow in mild surprise but said nothing about his choice.

"May I assist you in some way, Captain?" he asked after a moment, wishing to indicate his willingness but not drive the human further into his protective shell.

A weary sigh, and Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think so, Spock. I just have to figure out what to do with Peter."

"Have you no relations which could take custody of him?"

"That's just it." Kirk glanced down at the papers he held for a moment. "My mother is fine with accepting custody of him, but there are his step-brothers to consider. Sam's first wife died several years ago," he added, seeing the surprise flicker across Spock's expression. "Andrew and Jacob, children by his first, are…seventeen and sixteen now, thereabouts. When Sam and Aurelan decided to accept a posting here on Deneva, they gave the choice to the boys whether to move with them or enroll in a private boys' school on Earth. They were old enough to make the choice for themselves, and decided to stay, while Sam and Aurelan brought Peter – Aurelan's child by her first husband – with them of course." (1)

Spock digested this information in silence for a moment. "The child is too young to be enrolled in the same school, I take it?"

"Peter's only nine. He's tall for his age; yes, he's too young. But they're in New York, and that's a long way from Iowa."

"What does your nephew wish to do?"

The captain sighed. "His only answer right now is that he doesn't really care. I wish I could leave him here, because this has been his home for three years, but it's just not possible legally."

"Perhaps the permanent decision could be delayed until you both are in a better frame of mind?" Spock suggested. “It will take some time to reach Earth from this area of space. Distance from this place may make the choice less difficult.”

A slow nod. "I guess that's going to have to do. But I can't even go with him back to Earth, Spock. Starfleet says we have to be underway to the next star system in three days and they won't give me leave to go with him for as long as it would take to reach Terra from here. I can probably shuttle him to Starbase Seventeen and make it back before we leave, but Peter will have to get a transport ship back by himself." Kirk's voice dropped. "He shouldn't have to face all this alone."

Spock's jaw clenched slightly without intent. "No one should."

Surprising himself with the instant response, he saw the human wince, sharp grief manifesting itself through glimmering eyes. He resolved to make a rather pointed communiqué-call to the Admiralty at his earliest convenience. After all, what good was being the son of the Ambassador from Vulcan to Earth if one could not use that leverage when it pleased one to do so? To utilize the creative methods of negotiation when the occasion required was only logical.

Kirk knew his First well enough to know precisely where the conversation was headed, and was tactical master enough to attack in his usual fashion – as subtly as a Type One phaser array.

"The gesture is appreciated, Mr. Spock; but to be frank, I would prefer to be alone," Kirk said bluntly, while busying his hands in scanning and importing documents into one file on the padd before him, for easy access to the executor of his brother's estate.

Spock need not be a licensed psycho-analyst to see the fine tremor in the almost frantically-working fingers, and to know it indicated the human was lying. He never would understand this predilection of defensive humans, to say one thing when in fact their entire body language screamed the exact opposite.

"I have no doubt you believe yourself to be telling the truth, Captain," he replied quietly. "Nevertheless, I have found that what one prefers is not always what is best for that individual."

Kirk's fingers clenched on the stylus briefly. "And you're an expert on the fact, how?" the captain snapped.

He refused to rise to the bait. "I am not."

"Well, there you have it then." The brief surge of anger was gone, leaving in its place a flawless detachment that any Vulcan would have been proud of, but which Spock was well aware was abnormal and therefore unhealthy for a human. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, I have these documents to finish condensing before I meet with the executor tomorrow."

It was a dismissal, a clear one; and Kirk had fallen into his telltale habit of overusing his title when frustrated or angry. The least confrontational, and most logical, course of action would be for Spock to retreat as he had before, having made the best attempt anyone could have expected of him – and far more than any true Vulcan would ever have.

Fortuitous for Jim, then, that he was only half-Vulcan.

He positioned his chair more comfortably in relation to the table, placed his hands folded upon its polished surface, and leaned back to wait.

He was studiously ignored for the next two hours, fourteen minutes, and fifty-seven seconds, as the human worked out his frustrations and emotions on the documents and padd before him, the angry skritching of a stylus the only sound which broke the uncomfortable silence. Finally, after the fifth time in as many minutes of watching Kirk rub his eyes and squint at the documents before him, Spock reached out to indicate the discarded reading glasses.

"Don't touch those!" The sharp exclamation sliced through the room, startling him.

"I was merely about to suggest you utilize them, else you may discover yourself in need of the Doctor's migraine medication before the morning arrives," he replied mildly. Spock moved his hands slowly to their original position, the motions gentle and fluid, as if attempting to not anger a cornered animal.

"They're not mine," Kirk said, sighing. Dropping the stylus, he began rubbing his eyes with both sets of fingertips "Spock, I'm sorry," he added, voice muffled slightly by his hands. "That was uncalled-for. In fact, so is everything else I've said to you since you came in here."

"I assure you, Captain, I have taken no offense."

A slight smile softened the harsh grief lines of the human's countenance as Kirk lowered his hands. "And that, my Vulcan friend, is exactly why you are the best thing that ever happened to me, after getting the _Enterprise_."

"I…am honored." And he was. The feeling – for that it was, and shameful as it was, it nonetheless existed – was mutual, though he could never respond so.

This exchange did not mean Kirk did not continue to work, ignoring his presence, but this time the silence was not chilled, painful to his overwrought and still weak mental defenses. For the next hour, Kirk scribbled on, composing letters and signing documents as the closest surviving family member, correlating and sending messages between interested parties. Spock, in the absence of anything more pressing than being a reassuring presence in the room, permitted his mind to drift into light meditation, secure in the knowledge that this human would never dream of distracting him whilst he was vulnerable, no matter how temperamental Kirk's emotions might be at the time.

Death, to a Vulcan, was simply a cessation of corporeal existence. The Vulcan mind, the soul, the _katra_ , lived on; and as the life of a Vulcan was in the mind, then the body was only a convenient receptacle for the true essence. He did not fully comprehend the human tendencies to retain attachment to the shell of a being, the illogical insistence of reverence to what amounted to a glorified exoskeleton for the true essence of a life-form. Death was a simple ritual of katric exchange into the Katric Arc for a Vulcan, and life continued after the appropriate grieving process; there was none of this decision of property, of family relations to consider, no wake and no funeral and no shared meal among the bereaved, no headstone or monument and no dithering about the perfect inscription.

There would be pain in loss, initially; but it did not linger, for all life was to be celebrated, and the cessation of one form simply meant the beginning of another form. A simple memorial to a noble life sufficed in his culture, and he remained in amazement at how humans (and other species as well, but he had far more experience with humans) could drag out such an affair for days, depending on the humans' religious and cultural observances.

Death was a much simpler matter for his people, and as such he struggled to comprehend how humans could deal with such a thing; not just the logistics of planning and making changes in life, but in dealing with the grief. No human possessed the mental ability to identify, control, channel, and then release emotions as a Vulcan did. To live with the constant pain of a void such as that which Death brought was difficult enough with such training – and _without_ it, he could not see how a man might cope without succumbing to madness.

It was that understanding which allowed him to merely sit back and observe, in an attempt to learn how this particular human was coping – and quite admirably, at least to outward appearances – with his own loss. He knew James Kirk better than anyone else aboard, possibly in the galaxy, and he knew the man turned to work – frantic, painstaking, exhausting work – in order to clear his head, order his mind, stave off thinking of the inevitable. This pile of legal paperwork, which he suspected was not truly as much work as Kirk appeared to be making it, seemed to be the answer in this case.

He was not at all surprised when, one hour and twenty-six minutes after their last brief exchange, a small thud alerted his meditating mind to the fact that Kirk's mind had finally lost its battle with his body, and the human had fallen asleep, head pillowed on one arm and the other hand limply clutching the stylus.

Spock began to rise from the last few levels of meditation, grateful for the reprieve to begin rebuilding those barriers which the neural parasites had been able to destroy previously this week, and eventually surfaced. A very human sigh threatened to escape his lips as he reached over to shut off the insistently-beeping padd. The blinking lights switched off and the noise ceased, and he silently extracted the stylus from Kirk's fingers and replaced it in its slot.

He debated waking the sleeping human, for the awkward position was definitely not conducive to restful slumber and would probably last a very short while, but finally decided that any rest was preferable to the captain gaining next to none as he had for the last week.

Spock lowered the harsh glare of the overhead light to a softer glow, and carefully removed the fragile reading glasses from their precarious perch next to the human's limp head; it would not do to have them damaged upon the captain's waking.

For a brief moment he considered doing as Kirk had requested, and leaving him to privacy. But Spock knew one thing about this unique being, which very few had ever guessed. During the many months they had served aboard this ship, he had discovered the captain's strengths, and had learned his weaknesses, seen Kirk's most pleasant memories, and noted his greatest fears.

And there was nothing in any universe which would make Spock of Vulcan leave James Kirk to face his battles alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) An often-forgotten and canonically unexplained fact is mentioned in What Are Little Girls Made Of: Roger Korby informs the audience that Kirk's brother's real name is George, and that he has three sons. I went with this explanation for the story’s sake, it’s certainly not the only one out there.


	4. Chapter Four

**III. Apathy toward one's own species**

Doctor Leonard H. McCoy was, while one of the most frustrating of humans Spock had ever encountered, also one of the most intriguing individuals of any species he had met in all his travels through the galaxy. Rarely had he met a human who was so explosively emotional himself, and yet could also pinpoint with uncanny accuracy the hidden feelings which lurked under the surface of any other being around him.

It was of little wonder, that the man had a dual doctorate in both psychology as well as xenobiology, though the former was not as well-known a fact as the latter; obviously, despite a healthy self-preservational fear of all things telepathic, the human did have an instinctive inclination toward the very rudimentary beginnings of empathic ability. That was why the _Enterprise_ did not have a ship's counselor, as most constitution-class starships did; McCoy was more than qualified to hold that title in addition to his primary one, and in fact the captain's preference was that one trusted man had the pulse of the ship and reported upon that, rather than several such.

They also had several nursing staff who were qualified as therapists, of course, just as they had other surgical staff than their Chief of Medical – but there was a reason Kirk had decided upon this man for the flagship’s most important position of authority (for if the situation demanded, the CMO could even relieve the Captain), and Spock had, reluctantly, grown to understand that reasoning.

Therefore Spock should indeed have known better, than to think that he would escape Sickbay without being outed, so to speak. Certainly, such a tactic had rarely succeeded in the past, but he had thought perhaps with the recent distractions he might have a better rate of victory this time. Nurse Chapel was willing enough to cover for him, their rocky relationship having settled into a professional companionship that was actually rather enjoyable when she was not blatantly attempting to cultivate romantic feelings toward him. But unfortunately, she was not quick enough to hide the evidence from a paranoid and overly suspicious Chief Medical Officer.

"Is that a _headache_ reliever?" McCoy asked incredulously, staring at the empty hypospray in his Head Nurse's hand.

The guilty look on Chapel's face was corroboration enough, and Spock silently wished for unconsciousness, as he was obviously not going to be able to leave Sickbay as quietly as he had entered.

"This I gotta hear. My office, Mr. Spock. _Now_."

Twenty minutes and a lengthy explanation later, Spock felt slightly vindicated to find that he likely was not the only one who now was developing the human weakness known as a headache, albeit his was due to tension and McCoy's was likely due to a rapidly rising blood pressure. He had been previously unaware that such a color could be produced by the facial capillaries.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Must you continually ask such ridiculous questions, Doctor?"

"Jim has bent over backwards to give them everything they've ever asked for! You two just got back from being prisoners of a Klingon occupational army and negotiating the Organian peace treaty, for pity's sake - that's supposedly the diplomatic prize of the decade!" (1)

"I am aware, Doctor."

"If this was any other starship in the 'Fleet, there wouldn't even be any questions asked; it's standard practice for an immediate family member to be given at least three days for bereavement leave, and more for someone so high up on the chain of command!"

"I am _aware_ , Doctor."

"Then _why_ are they refusing to grant it?"

Spock gave up the will to pretend Vulcan control and leaned forward, wearily massaging blood flow back into the constricted vessels at his temples. If this was what the captain went through every time a migraine struck, it was a small medical miracle the man could still function at command capacity. It was highly unfortunate that his pain controls had shattered under the attack from the Denevan parasites and had not yet been fully rebuilt, as evidenced in his inability to fully disperse this accursed human weakness.

"It is obvious to me that Admiral Komack's promotion to Head Admiral of Section Fifteen rides heavily on the visibility of the Federation at the Altair VI inauguration ceremonies in six weeks, Doctor, and there is talk of the ceremony being moved up by as much as one month's time. Should they grant the captain his requested two weeks and the ceremony be adjusted by that large of a time frame, there is a minute possibility that the _Enterprise_ could be twelve hours late for the opening ceremonies due to her charted course back to retrieve him from Starbase Seventeen." (2)

McCoy's jaw dropped in shock. "Are you serious?"

Spock sighed. "That is the only explanation I can cogitate which will explain the admiralty's unusually callous behavior and breaking of basic human resources code."

He was given a calculating look. "That's a pretty petty reason, Spock, especially for a Vulcan to come up with. I'd have thought you'd have a more logical explanation than that."

"I am open to suggestions, Doctor; but while I can believe your species' human natures to be apathetic at times, I do not believe a board of Starfleet admirals would deny the captain's request for bereavement leave simply out of spite, surely. Do you?"

"If it's Komack we're talkin' about, then yes – I knew the man when he was nothing more than a Lieutenant-Commander, had him for a class at the Academy. He's a pompous, idiotic stuffed shirt, and if I'd been more than a cadet at the time I'd have filed a report on him more than once for xenophobic comments. I'd sooner trust a Klingon, at least they have a sense of honor."

Spock was forced to agree, if this were indeed accurate – which, much as it sometimes irked his logical nature to admit, McCoy's assessments usually were. The man knew his psychology, better than any other aboard; disturbingly so, when one was on the receiving end of the sharp scrutiny. If this were the case, then continuing to vie for the captain's leave against such a man was a hopeless gesture. Such a man would never be swayed by sympathy, for he would have no such empathetic inclinations; this was one trait of the human race which remained totally foreign to Spock's Vulcan nature. To ignore the suffering of another sentient being was never acceptable.

"All the same, Doctor. The Admiralty's decision was logical, from a point of view."

"Are you sayin' it was a good reason?!"

"Certainly not. I am merely saying it was a _reason_."

McCoy's eyes sharpened suddenly. "I'm guessing, it was also a good reason for your headache? Being on the comms with them for over an hour?"

Spock stood, straightened the edge of his tunic. "That, and the knowledge that I must now enlist outside aid to secure the captain's leave. Aid which has not been forthcoming to this point in my career."

The physician raised an eyebrow. "And if that doesn't work?"

"Then I shall be forced to, as the captain puts it, _get creative_ , Doctor. Please inform me when the captain and his nephew beam back aboard from their meeting with the executor."

"I take it you want your little chat with the admiralty to remain off the record, at least to his knowledge? Y'know he's not gonna be happy if he finds out you've been meddling, Mr. Spock."

"I believe you will find, Doctor, that said record has already been hidden from view. Whatever your opinions of my emotional shortcomings, I am not a fool."

* * *

Amanda Grayson was one of the most long-suffering of humans, in Spock's admittedly extensive acquaintance – and this opinion was entirely without familial bias. Only a unique being could live the life she did, as wife of the most prominent ambassador to Terra; and only an even more unique being could live with Sarek. Spock had yet to reconcile with his father since the day he entered Starfleet; while they had on two occasions crossed paths while on Starfleet duty, neither had even acknowledged their relationship – and upon neither occasion was anyone around them even aware of said relationship, so professional had they been. Sarek did not approve of Spock's desire to become a scientist through Starfleet Academy instead of the Vulcan Science Academy; Spock had, in that single act of human rebellion, alienated himself most effectively from his own family.

He never had quite understood Sarek's disappointment. Spock was quite well-received among his peers both in Starfleet and among the Vulcan scientific community, for most Vulcan scientists were logical enough to understand the advantage which human imagination offered a scientist, an advantage which full Vulcans simply did not have. It was the social community of Vulcan which rejected him as inferior, not the scientific community. Spock would have thought his own family, which had purposely created a half-Vulcan life form through science itself, would at least recognize this as well; but no, Sarek was a proud Vulcan, a traditionalist to the core, and apparently when Spock refused to fall into his social place precisely as expected he reverted to that traditionalist mentality and promptly rejected all but the strictest Vulcan standards in his own son.

Spock did not much care, if he were honest; he had his work in Starfleet, and that was all that mattered. Were it not that the friction between the two of them was a source of grief to his human mother, he would gladly never speak to Sarek again. However, because of said mother, he would continue to remain in cordial contact with her as an extension of the family, for her sake.

Now, perhaps this might be his saving grace.

Possibly it was the residual effects of a shattered mental control, but it did pain him slightly to see the shock upon her face when she answered the request for a live communique, the first in nearly ten years she had received from him. The last time he had requested such, had been two years into his first _Enterprise_ posting under Captain Pike; after that, he had decided that such methods were unnecessarily emotional and that the usual written correspondence would suffice.

Now, she looked so surprised, and so pleased, to see him, that he briefly wondered if perhaps that had not been the best course of action. Humans' emotions, he was learning, were much more fragile than he had ever supposed.

"Mother."

"Spock," she replied softly, with a smile he knew she would never have offered him had they been in person, on Vulcan. Sarek must not be home, for her to so display human emotion with such readiness. "It is so good to see you, my son. Are you well?"

"I am. Though recently the _Enterprise_ underwent a mission during which that outcome was uncertain." Perhaps he should not have said that, as it appeared to worry her. "I am fully recovered, however."

"I am pleased to hear that. I do wish you would keep us better informed about your state of health, though," she responded, gently reproving. "I do not wish to hear after the fact that you were in danger, my son."

"I…shall endeavor to improve that behavior."

The blink of surprise he received meant that she had not been expecting so easy an acquiescence; perhaps time has changed him. Or perhaps…perhaps those around him have changed him. Certainly, he would never have attempted what he is attempting now, ten years ago.

"Thank you, Spock. Now, my son – you surely have not contacted me out of the blue simply to say hello, after so long. Is something wrong?"

He paused, uncertain. "Of a sort, Mother," he finally said slowly.

Amanda raised an eyebrow. "With you, Spock?"

"Negative."

"With the _Enterprise_?"

"Negative."

A small smile. "With your captain, then?"

His steepled fingers lowered in surprise. "Your telepathic perception has improved over time, Mother. I was unaware your parental bond had become so strong."

Amanda laughed, a rare and soothing sound evoking nothing but childhood memory. "I must disappoint you, my son. Nothing so Vulcan, I'm afraid, but rather human intuition. I know of very few things which could bring that amount of concern to your eyes, and even fewer beings who could do so. It is no great leap of logic."

Spock sighed, looking away from the viewscreen for a moment.

"What is it that has happened, Spock? Are you comm-ing me to ask for human advice, or advice in _dealing_ with humans?"

"Neither, mother. I…require political advice. And possibly Sarek's intervention, if you are able to secure it."

Amanda sat back slowly, rearranging a fold of her lightweight Vulcan robe. "That is an unusually tall order, especially from you, Spock. This must be a grave matter indeed."

"Grave enough."

"Tell me what has happened, from the beginning, and I will give you what advice I can, knowing what I do about Federation politics. Then we will decide what is necessary as the next step."

Spock had always appreciated Amanda's logical approach to any problem, one reason why she was an excellent human companion; very few humans in his acquaintance even as an adult had ever matched her in the ability to strike at the heart of a problem and logically find a solution with such rapidity; in fact, it was that very quality which she had in common with Captain Kirk, one reason why both minds were equally successful in navigating the treacherous waters of Starfleet diplomacy. She listened intently as he detailed the events of the Deneva mission, what he could divulge without classified information, as well as the more personal of those events and how they affected the captain. His current problem, he outlined in closing, and inquired as to how he might go about reversing that decision.

Amanda exhaled slowly when he had finished, shaking her head. "Spock, that is disgraceful."

"I am aware, Mother. Unfortunately, such is the life of a starship commander. And while the captain has accepted that decision, I do not."

Amanda's eyes sparkled at him, even through the static of a subspace connection. "My son, you are becoming positively _human_."

"Really, Mother. I did not request your advice only to be insulted."

"My apologies." Somehow, they did not sound at all sincere. "But you have a particularly tricky problem, Spock. Unfortunately, if an hour of logical argument couldn't sway the Board in your favor…something tells me there is far more behind this than one admiral throwing a temper tantrum. I don't see an official way to get that decision rescinded."

"An unofficial way, then?" He chose for the moment to ignore the phrase 'temper tantrum,' mentally making a note to look it up in the ship's library banks at a later date. McCoy had used the term once before as well, in reference to the captain's arguing about a meal card restriction; he did not see the correlation between the two now.

Amanda smiled ruefully. "Spock, even the best diplomat must sometimes accept that there is no compromise to be reached in an argument. Could you find through enough digging, something capable of perhaps blackmailing this Admiral Komack into giving your captain what he wants? Certainly, with your abilities I have no doubt you could, my son. But then how do you suppose he is going to treat your captain when you arrive at Altair VI for the opening ceremonies?"

Spock had thought of that already, the only reason why the process was not underway.

"As for asking for Sarek's intervention, I would be more than happy to do so if I thought it would do any good, my son – but he is halfway across the galaxy, in the Medusan sector, under a communications blackout for the next seven Standard days." Amanda looked at him with sympathy as his disappointment must have reflected in his eyes. "Besides this, I doubt his influence extends as far into the Council as you might believe."

"That is unfortunate."

"Indeed. If anyone could have made this happen, my son, it would have been you. Your own diplomatic skills are formidable in their own right, Spock. You know this."

"Apparently, they are not."

"Apparently, they simply are not a match for human selfishness," she corrected gently. "Very few forces in the worlds are, Spock. It is unfortunate, that one of the worst human emotions is the one which governs many authorities' decisions."

"Quite." He had no idea what to do now.

"Spock. If there is a way around this, you will be the one to find it. Not I, not your father – you will. Of this, I am certain."

He raised an eyebrow, tolerant as always of her emotional confidence. "Upon what do you base this conclusion, Mother?"

Amanda smiled, and lifted a hand to indicate the two of them and their video-feed. "Spock, for the first time in ten years you have altered your established personal habits, all for the sake of one human. Surely, finding a legal loophole in a Starfleet code is not an exercise outside your mental capabilities, if that human is so important?"

He shook his head slightly. "Your hypothesis has no structural evidence upon which to base this conclusion, Mother."

"Yes, yes, you may call it science all you like, Spock. The fact remains that you were willing to actually ask for Sarek's help in this, when I believe your exact words last time were, you 'would be quite pleased to never cross paths with him again, professionally or personally'?"

Spock firmly quashed the urge to fidget, something this woman had not been able to produce in him since he was an adolescent. "The cause is sufficient."

"So it is, my son." A small smile. "Someday you will have to bring this young man on a shore leave to Vulcan so I can meet him, you know."

"I do not see the necessity of that."

"That is exactly what you said about live video-communiques ten years ago, my son – and yet here we are."

Spock looked uneasily to the side and then back to the monitor. "I must return to the Bridge, Mother; the captain will be returning from the planet shortly. Thank you for speaking with me."

"Not your subtlest change of subject, my son. But go to your duty. Be well, Spock." Amanda offered him a solemn nod, and the _ta'al_ , before reaching up to turn off the video link.

For a moment he sat before the computer, contemplating what seemed to be a dismal failure from start to finish. He was no closer to his goal than he had been this morning, when he attempted to win over the 'Fleet board of admirals regarding their denial of Kirk's application for bereavement leave. Seldom had he been unable to sway a group of people to his side, by means of logic or what the captain always called _creative diplomacy_ , but no amount of either had been successful in this case.

Fingers steepled against his lips in thought, he looked at the blank computer screen for a moment in contemplation, before sitting up suddenly.

"Computer, access Federation library banks."

_"Working."_

"Access all Starfleet personnel regulations dating back to Starfleet foundation, including any obscure regulations by founding members."

_"Accessing Starfleet historical records."_

"Specifically, those regulations put into place by Vulcan founding members."

_"Regulations accessed. Import files?"_

"Import files. Correlate current and discarded Starfleet regulations and sort by date made effective."

The files rapidly flitted across the monitor, flashing too rapidly for a human's eye though his could follow well enough – and within a few seconds, a spreadsheet had flashed up onto his screen. He moved closer to scan it, scrutinizing the time periods and when regulations had been brought into effect, when they had been discarded or overruled or adjusted on the books, if they were still in effect or not.

And finally, one of the columns caught his eye.

What was it the humans said?

 _Bingo_.

* * *

Captain Kirk had returned from Deneva a full twelve hours after beaming down that morning to speak with the executor of his brother's estate. No one had expected the process of converting the estate into a trust fund for Peter, sorting through the possessions the child wished to take back to Terra with him, and disposing of the rest, to take that long; that was one reason why Spock had had such a long time to make his attempt at manipulating the admiralty with no one the wiser – but the time had not been as kind to the captain or his nephew, obviously. The child was visibly drained, small feet dragging in his battered sneakers, and McCoy took him straight off to Officers' Mess and promised to see him to bed. Neither Peter nor his uncle put up any protest, which was indication of how exhausted both truly were, emotionally no doubt as well as physically.

Spock had met them both in the transporter room, accompanied by the doctor, and then followed the captain as he entered the turbolift, having sent a couple small parcels to his quarters with a helpful yeoman they passed in the corridor.

"Bridge."

"Captain, nothing of import has happened today; you would be better served to –"

" _Bridge_." The word was brittle, broken, like shards of stone. "I did not request a commentary on my choice of destination, Mr. Spock."

"Sir, I merely intended –"

"Well, _don't_." The words were snapped, almost viciously, over the man's shoulder as he exited the lift onto the Bridge.

The beta shift crew, about to leave for the night, all jumped in their seats, shocked to see the captain at the unusual hour and many of them not having seen him at all since word had spread of his recent loss. DeSalle, the engineer on duty in the central chair, scrambled out of it with an alacrity which would have been amusing in other circumstances. Kirk gave him a curt nod as he passed, before climbing up and collapsing into the seat himself.

Lieutenant Uhura, the duty watch officer for the evening, shot Spock a quick look over her shoulder, to which he shook his head silently. She turned back to her sound board with a worried frown.

"Sir, the day's reports," Ensign Tormolen piped up nervously from where she hovered at the captain's left elbow, holding out a data-padd at arm's length. "Anything else you want from us before we go?"

Kirk took the padd and from somewhere conjured up a genuine smile for his crew. "No, Ensign. Have a good evening."

"Thank you, sir." A muted chorus echoed her as the shift began wrapping up, staccato chirps and beeps suddenly filling the silence as they entered final logs and signed off on consoles. Spock moved silently over to the Communications board.

"Lieutenant, please silently notify the gamma shift crew that their shift will begin an hour later than scheduled this evening," he said quietly.

Uhura tilted her head in question, but sent the written communication immediately to the crewmen's personal comm-links and data-padds, which would prevent them from coming to the bridge to replace their beta shift counterparts for another hour.

"When you leave, please place a lockdown on the turbolift's Bridge exit for the period of one hour, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir." Uhura glanced back at the command chair, where the captain was fully engrossed in whatever report he was reading. "Mr. Spock…"

"I am caring for it, Lieutenant. That was the purpose of my instructions."

"Thank you, sir."

Meanwhile, the beta shift crewmen were departing behind them in twos and threes, chatting eagerly about the evening's plans or about what they hoped was on the menu for evening mess. Usually, due to auto-piloting sequences, the beta and gamma shift hand-offs did not require immediate personnel swaps unless they were in the middle of a yellow alert, and so it did not raise any alarms to the captain when no one immediately replaced them at their stations. As duty watch officer, Lieutenant Uhura was last to leave, handing over watch in the official logs to Commander Spock as current XO on the Bridge.

Spock waited until the light above the turbolift door went from orange, to red, and then started flashing rapidly to indicate a lockdown was in place, to take his seat at his station and wait.

He did not have to wait long; the dead silence broke through the captain's concentration faster than a phaser blast would have. Within ten seconds, Kirk glanced up, then did a double take at the empty bridge.

Spock had been almost hoping for an explosive reaction; those, he was more than familiar with by this point in their mission, and those he was well-suited to counter, one reason why they functioned so perfectly as a command team. But this: this cold, quiet, almost Vulcanlike control that had taken over in the wake of Kirk's brother's death? This, he had no real idea how to deal with, and now was no exception.

The captain calmly set the data-padd down on the floor beside the command chair, swiveled it toward the science station, and leveled a look that could flash-freeze plasma in the direction of his First Officer.

"I do not appreciate being ambushed on my own Bridge, Commander. You overstep yourself."

"Sir, I had wished to have this conversation in your quarters, but you insisted upon coming to the Bridge while off duty."

"A captain is never off duty. Something you might remember were you focused more on this ship instead of poking into my private life."

Spock bowed his head in acknowledgment, for it was a fair enough statement, though he did not deserve the anger behind it.

Hazel eyes flashed fire at him, the first spark of something other than depression or that blank mask of nothing he had been privy to during the past forty-eight hours. "What. Do you _want_."

Spock stepped to the dividing rail – no longer just a physical divider between them, unfortunately – and reached over it to hand the captain a data-padd.

"What is this."

"Your itinerary for the next seven days, sir."

"My what." Kirk roughly clicked the document open and held it closer to his face, squinting at the print before him. Spock pondered absently if he really did need reading glasses, so early in life, or if it were simple fatigue from lack of sleep and stress.

He saw clearly the moment that the contents of the document registered. What little color remained in the human's face drained suddenly, and he swayed alarmingly against the dividing rail, leaning against it at last to finish reading the page's contents.

Spock sat hesitantly on the rail nearby and waited in silence, looking down at his interlocked hands.

He heard a soft sound of disbelief, and Kirk shook his head, still staring down at the padd. Finally he looked up, and for the first time since the Deneva mission began Spock saw the beginnings of unchecked tears in his eyes. "How did you do this?" he asked. "It can't have been anyone else."

Spock offered him the Vulcan equivalent of a self-deprecating shrug, a tilt of the head and raised eyebrow. "Call it…creative diplomacy, and a thorough knowledge of obscure but still in-effect Starfleet regulations. Also, I may have bargained away half of our next shore leave in favor of guest appearance at a scientific lecture at the Vulcan Science Academy. Sir."

Kirk gave a kind of strangled laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob, muffled into the back of his hand. He set the padd down on the rail, and blinked desperately several times. "What did I ever do, to deserve you, Spock?" he whispered. The words were followed by a concerningly slow, shaky exhalation of breath that left no room for doubt that the man was on the edge of his breaking point. "What would I have _done_ , if –"

Spock looked over at the struggling human, wondering anew at how this incredibly unusual man could not see it himself – that the gratitude was more than reciprocated; he simply battled far more to show it, and in this case especially had no idea how to assist in dealing with such a loss.

He had done what he could – but was it enough?

"I…" he paused, uncertain, kept his eyes on his clasped hands. "Regret that I was unable to do more, Captain."

He heard a choked noise of disbelief, and looked up in time to see Kirk making the slight jump up to sit on the rail as well, opposite him a few centimeters away.

"Only you, would apologize for that." At such close quarters, the utter exhaustion was so evident in every feature of the captain's face and posture he wondered how the man was still conscious. "From the very beginning of this…mess, you've been the one thing that's kept me sane. And I've hardly been pleasant to deal with, to you or my crew."

" _Enough_ , Jim," he interrupted with as much gentleness as he could muster, given how the human emotion of frustration was battering his already thin mental shields. This human really was that clueless, apparently. Kirk's head jerked up in some surprise at the unusual sharpness of his tone. "You do your crew, and your officers, a disservice, Captain," he continued, more quietly. "They are well aware of the recent circumstances, and I believe you will find your own welfare to be their only concern. Do you truly have so little idea of the regard this crew holds for you, that it must be pointed out by a _Vulcan_?"

Were the situation not so unfortunate, the look of dumbfounded shock on the captain's face at that last would be quite amusing; but now, it only produced a sense of sadness – but also one of resolve, for in this moment he now knew another of this man's weaknesses, something to note for future reference. They were still such a young command team, still developing and still learning – and this, just another quotient in that fascinating equation which was Captain James T. Kirk. That brash, charismatic charm was apparently not as deeply-ingrained as one would think.

Fascinating.

But not the point at hand.

"I…look, Spock…"

"Your refusal to properly acknowledge and assimilate your human grief is harming not just yourself but your crew as well," he interrupted quietly. Kirk's face turned another shade of white, but he at least did not move away when Spock's hand landed hesitantly on the gold sleeve beside him. "You must let this go, sir."

"I can't." The words were honest enough, a painful whisper that sounded torn, ragged.

"If not for yourself, then for the sake of your crew, you must, Captain."

Fists clenched under his hand, fiercely defiant despite their shaking. "I _can't_."

He could already see the mask returning, the Starfleet captain's training taking back over – _never allow your crew to see weakness_ , _do not permit yourself to lose control or you risk losing command_ , the lessons every command track candidate had practically forced into his head from the beginning of his first cadet trimester. The emotions which had been so close to the surface were fading away now, sinking back below that thick veneer of professionalism that now bothered Spock more than he wished to admit – he, a Vulcan, bothered by a human's lack of emotion. Truly, a study in contradiction.

Kirk had been so close! And yet, still, the man remained unyielding, his willpower stronger than all their efforts.

Unless Spock acted quickly, this chance would be lost, and most likely there would not be another.

Spock did not usually prefer deliberate frontal assaults, in battle or in chess; he favored the more subtle methods of stealth tactics, and that carried over into life as well. Jim Kirk had all the subtlety of a photon torpedo at times; that and creative unpredictability were his choice of strategy. But on occasion, they each did adopt the other's tactical approach, with impressive results.

"I appreciate this, more than I can tell you, Mr. Spock," the captain said softly, picking up the data-padd from the rail and sliding to his feet. "Perhaps someday I will be able to repay the gesture." With weary footsteps, he began walking toward the turbolift, intent no doubt upon disabling the lockdown and leaving.

"There is one thing," he called suddenly, without moving from his position, "which you could do, Captain."

Kirk paused, then turned around, padd tucked under one arm and that calm, bland mask firmly back in place, even the hint of a smile. "Of course. Name it, Mr. Spock."

" _Let me help_ , Jim." (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I try to go by the TOS order of episodes if there’s no Stardate mentioned, considering that to be the timeline, so Errand of Mercy would have been extremely recent.  
> (2) Amok Time is the next episode following Operation Annihilate, and in it the Enterprise is headed to the inauguration ceremonies for the new President of Altair VI, being in a hurry because the ceremonies have been moved up by a month. Admiral Komack is the one who interacts with the Enterprise during its multiple course changes during that episode, and he is the one who gets told off by T'Pau at the end of it, prompting what most assume is a series-long dislike for Captain Kirk. I've written the timeline like this, because in the Blish novelizations of the TOS episodes, shortly after the events of OA and CoTEoF, Spock supposedly takes Kirk to Vulcan for a period of time to recover from the loss of his brother and Edith Keeler.  
> (3) The significance of this phrase comes from the episode City on the Edge of Forever, the episode directly before Operation Annihilate and arguably the best episode in the entire series. In it, Kirk tells Edith Keeler that someday that phrase will become the most important in the galaxy – more important than "I love you" – and due to Edith Keeler's death being directly before this episode's additional losses, this is some fairly serious ammunition.


	5. Chapter Five

**II. The need for a physical manifestation of emotional pain**

It had been a tactical move, and a ruthless one. A shot straight through a chink they both knew existed in the captain's armor, aimed straight at a wound that still hadn't healed from a very recent, very traumatic mission. Under other circumstances Spock would never have dreamt of bringing up so painful a thing – but perhaps the shock of a double loss would suffice where less did not, to produce that release which this stubborn human still refused to allow himself, even after losing not just one, but now three people he loved, all in the short space of a Terran month. (1)

Granted, had he known that the words would have had this bad an effect, he might have rethought that strategy. The padd slipped from Kirk's hands, clattering to the deck with an aborted chirp of protest, as he turned deathly pale. For a moment Spock thought the man might actually faint; instead he wavered backward and fell more than sat in the chair at the Library console, the closest to them, and buried his face in his hands. Now concerned about Kirk's dangerously shallow breathing, Spock was beginning to think this was a colossally bad idea. He was about to call for Medical, when the captain drew a long, shuddering breath, muffled as his hands dragged slowly down his face before coming to rest tightly clasped before him, elbows on his knees.

Spock leaned forward in a mirroring position, inches away, and waited.

"You go straight for the kill, don't you, Spock?" was the hoarse answer he received in answer to his quiet inquiry.

He could not in fairness deny the accusation. "Yes, sir."

A broken curse directed at him, such a rare occurrence for this articulate human, and it was more amusing than anything else as Spock could not remember the last being who dared to do such a thing. Finally Kirk raised a hand to his eyes, dashing away what had to be tears before pinching the bridge of his nose in a familiar pain-filled gesture.

"I'm so tired, Spock," he finally whispered, slumping in the chair with the attitude of a man who has finally given up trying to pretend.

"That is unsurprising, Captain. You have given Doctor McCoy much cause for concern in the past week."

"Just him." A slight spark of teasing lit the human's watery eyes for a fractional second. "Because _he's_ the one who's been poking the hornet's nest for the last two days."

Spock did not bother to pretend ignorance of the metaphor; this was not the time. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

"Don't think I haven't noticed everything else you've done this week, either," Kirk added quietly. "Somehow I doubt my paperwork did itself for the last five days, I was told you've spent half your off-duty hours with Peter…and I know for a fact I forgot about three conference calls with the admiralty about the other planets in this system that I assume you took care of for me."

"It was no trouble, Captain." He was surprised, and dismayed, to see that the human's eyes were filling with tears again, apparently triggered by his words. "Sir?"

"I – I was just thinking." Kirk smiled fleetingly, looked down at his hands. "How much Sam would've liked you."

This was unexpected, but he could hear McCoy's somewhat grating voice in his head telling him to keep the man talking, and so he reached out, laid a hand gently over the human's shaking ones. "I am honored."

A tear fell on their fingers, and he saw its mate be hastily dashed away with Kirk's free hand before he tried to pull away. Spock calmly maintained the grip, receiving an incredulous look even through the grief.

"Aren't you downloading all…this?" The captain vaguely gestured up-and-down with his free hand. "I know your mental shields were severely damaged from that parasite, do not try to lie to me."

This man's ridiculous selflessness even while hurting continued to be a source of fascination. He shook his head, grasping Kirk's other hand partly in reassurance, partly to prevent him from continuing in his futile attempt to hide the fact that he was grieving. "I am in no difficulty, Captain."

Kirk bowed his head at that, and Spock felt more than saw the sense of painful _surrender_ which heralded what he could only assume – _hope_ , foreign as the emotion was – was a therapeutic emotional display. Certainly, it qualified as a physical manifestation of the human emotion of grief, according to what he knew of the species, and judging by the pain he could feel echoes of in this casual physical contact, it was badly needed.

Spock of Vulcan had no real frame of reference from which to draw data on this topic, thankfully never having been in the kind of emotional pain this man was, never having suffered this kind of loss. Besides this fact, there was the incontrovertible cultural difference: Vulcans dealt with loss in an entirely different sort of way, through individual and group meditation, categorizing and releasing such emotions through those methods. But humans had no such outlet, and he had no idea how they could survive such painful emotions even with a physical manifestation of that pain as their own cultural method of release. He trusted McCoy's judgment on such things, and the results spoke for themselves in the boy, Peter; but in this matter, and in this particularly unusual human, he could only hope it was a step on the road to healing.

Behind them, he heard the hissing of the turbolift doors. About to chastise Lieutenant Uhura or Commander Scott for overriding the lockdown, he half-turned, hands still grasping the captain's, but stopped when a familiar blue-garbed figure stepped hesitantly onto the bridge and looked around, eyes widening when they lighted on them after only a moment.

Spock shook his head, and McCoy immediately stopped in his tracks, taking in every detail of the scene with probably far more perception than Spock was capable of.

Before him, the captain took a deep breath and, releasing one of Spock's hands, dragged a gold sleeve roughly across his eyes and face.

"Captain," Spock said softly.

The human blinked a few times before his eyes flicked upward. Throat clearing roughly, he made an obvious attempt to speak in a normal tone. "Yes, Mr. Spock."

"Only twenty minutes remain until your gamma shift crew reports for duty on the bridge, sir. I assume you prefer to be in your quarters by that time?"

"Yes, Mr. Spock, that would…definitely be my preference." Kirk straightened wearily, and pulled away with exhausted reluctance. "You think of everything."

"I do try, sir."

He received the ghost of a smile, tinged with sadness but at least genuine – not the bland façade he and everyone around them had been given for the last few days.

A throat cleared awkwardly across the room, but it did not seem to surprise the captain in any way; he had either heard the lift and presumed its occupant, or else simply was not surprised to find them both in close proximity at this time.

"Bones. You in on this too?"

"Nope, this was all him," McCoy drawled, shooting the First what looked like a congratulatory grin. "But Sickbay gets notified whenever there's an unexpected lockdown anywhere aboard, and I figured I better come investigate, make sure you weren't gonna do something stupid up here by yourself. Scott's controlling systems now from down in Auxiliary, by the way, no need for you to stay up here until the watch officer arrives." The physician had moved across the bridge as he spoke, and now clapped Kirk on the shoulder gently, obviously giving the man a none-too-subtle visual examination. "How're you doing?"

Kirk shot his silent First an almost shy smile, and looked up at the doctor's concerned face with a nod of reassurance. "Better, Bones. Seriously."

"Really." Spock received a look of incredulity, as well as a mouthed "Tell me later" over the captain's head as they as a group moved slowly toward the turbolift.

"Really. Starfleet approved my leave request, Bones. Peter and I leave tomorrow morning, to catch a transport ship at Starbase Seventeen."

McCoy stopped with his hand two inches from the lift's directional handle, eyes darting to Spock's calm expression. "Do you now."

"Mmhm. Deck Five." The lift doors closed on the captain's command, since the doctor had yet to unfreeze from his surprise.

Spock merely raised an eyebrow, clearly unwilling to volunteer any information.

"Third time's the charm, then?"

"A somewhat loose interpretation of the situation, Doctor."

"Wait, what?"

"Nobody's talkin' to you, Jim."

"But –"

"Well mark me down impressed, Spock. I didn't think you had it in you to blackmail a board of Starfleet bigwigs."

"There was no blackmail involved, Doctor. In the technical sense."

"Gentlemen. I am standing right here."

"What _other_ sense is there for it, Spock?"

"I am not required to explain myself to you, Doctor McCoy."

"Smooth, Spock. Real smooth. I'm guessin' you were more articulate with Komack."

"Your guesswork is as accurate as your medical assessments, despite your dubious methods of producing both, Doctor. Truly, a unique skill set."

"Did you two become best friends while I've been distracted for the last week?"

"Uh, no. No no no."

"Vulcans do not have friends, Captain. And if they did, they certainly would not be so with such a highly irrational life-form such as Doctor McCoy."

The lift chimed cheerfully, announcing them to Deck Five, which was thankfully deserted.

"It was my highly-irrational life form that did that delicate corneal surgery on your pointy-eared head, so I'd watch my tone if I were you."

"Doctor. I have not the time to unravel at least two mixed metaphors in your sentence and still respond to its contents."

"I swear, it's like babysitting Peter and his brothers all over again."

"What's that, Jim?" McCoy stepped aside so the bio-sensor on the captain's door could register his presence and open.

"I said," the captain replied, looking somewhat relaxed for the first time in several days as he leaned against the door-jamb, "that I know exactly what you're doing, gentlemen. And I am grateful."

McCoy rocked gently on his heels and after hesitating a moment, handed him a hypospray cartridge. "I'm serious, if you can't sleep again tonight use it. It's non-habit forming, and you have to get some rest, Jim."

"I will, Doctor. I promise."

"And if you need me, call me. For you and only you, this time, I'll make a house call."

Kirk matched the crooked grin with one of his own. "Thanks, Bones."

"And you," McCoy added, jabbing a bony finger into Spock's chest as he passed, "you owe me a report, soon as you're done here. My office, in thirty minutes, or I send Chapel down to get you."

Spock openly glared at the human's retreating back, but the display was worth it if it could get the captain to laugh again like that.

"Sir, do you require assistance preparing for the voyage back to Terra tomorrow?"

"I don't think so, Spock. Come in, come in. I won’t be taking much, and Peter already has his things packed up. You would be welcome to come along, you know," Kirk replied, allowing him entrance to the cabin before letting it close behind them. "You did all the work, after all."

"Would that be your preference?"

The captain looked thoughtful. "I…well, I always enjoy your company, Spock. But I am concerned about the run through the Delta Phoenecia nebula, you know that's a prime spot for pirates to just lurk about waiting for some unsuspecting ship to blunder in…"

"I will remain and oversee the _Enterprise_ for the duration of the next week's mission, or I will accompany you – whichever will put your mind more at ease."

Kirk's face softened at his words. "You always know what to say, Spock." He settled down on the small couch with a sigh. "Honestly, as much as I would love to have you along, it would probably ease my mind more to know that I don't have to think about the ship at all for a week. There's no one else I would be able to leave her with other than you, and be able to not worry about her."

"Then I shall stay, and you will refrain from contacting the _Enterprise_ for official reports of any kind until the week is over."

A startled laugh. "You have a deal, Commander. You have a deal."

* * *

Spock had been quite surprised to discover, the following morning, that he had actually fallen asleep and slept the entire night through after he had finished his conversation with the captain – a full eight and one-half hours of sleep, an unheard-of amount for him. Granted, it had been many nights since he had successfully engaged in a complete sleep cycle of four hours, or had what he would consider a successful meditation session of an equivalent time – but to sleep through the night in such a fashion, as a human would, indicated that he had overexerted his mental and physical capacities.

He noticed the difference immediately upon preparing for the day; gone was the headache from the day prior, as well as the uncertainty regarding his own ability to capably aid the captain in his recovery process. Now that a concrete foundation had been laid that direction, and his head was completely clear, he had every confidence that this week away from the ship and subsequent time would be sufficient to bring a sense of normality back to all their lives.

He saw the captain and his nephew off in the shuttle bay, along with Doctor McCoy, shortly after morning mess. Scott had assigned two Security men and a shuttle pilot to escort the two to Starbase Seventeen, where they were to board a transport ship back to Terra, and Spock was pleased to see that the men chosen were among those who had been on the planet Deneva during the tragedy which unfolded there at the beginning; there would be a sense of familiarity for the child during the journey, as well as a lack of questions asked about the captain's unusual absence from the ship, questions which he need not be troubled with.

Kirk appeared very slightly improved in condition, at least said he had been able to sleep – whether that was a stretch of the truth or not was anyone's guess – and appeared to be in tranquil spirits when they left, focused solely on the comfort of his nephew and nothing else. Spock was ridiculously pleased to find that Peter Kirk was quite interested in the Science branches of Starfleet Academy rather than the Command track, much to his uncle's dismay, and gave the child some periodicals and the gift of a modified tricorder to keep him occupied on the shuttle ride. McCoy's contribution was a box of replicated Terran candies and a strict admonishment to not eat them all at once, an instruction which judging by the alacrity with which the child tore into the box was not likely to be followed in deep space any more than in the shuttle bay itself.

By 1300 hours, the shuttle had checked in at the first satellite approaching Starbase Seventeen, and the _Enterprise_ was concluding final preparations to leave orbit around Deneva.

The _Enterprise_ herself seemed more at peace, the tension which had risen aboard in the last few days having slowly dissipated, and the alpha shift bridge crew were visibly more relaxed, even with Spock in the command seat and not the captain; he had made the correct decision in remaining behind, for their sakes if nothing else.

All was well.

* * *

It was not until well past 2100 that Spock returned to his quarters, for the first time since that morning; one thing or another had served to keep him about the ship the entire day, even after alpha shift had concluded. He had received a text-communication from the captain shortly after 1700, apprising the crew that he had arrived safely at Starbase Seventeen, but other than that Spock could only assume that the trip was proceeding as smoothly as intended.

While the _Enterprise_ appeared to be in top working order, Chief Engineer Scott had held his attention for the last three hours with concerns regarding some fluctuations in the plasma ventilation output, and given that they were about to commence a mission which would pilot them into the heart of a nebula known to give off several kinds of unstable energy, Spock had made it a priority to listen to their CE's concerns and allow the man time accordingly to ensure that they were not of potential danger to the ship. The source had been found only minutes ago, according to the message he had just received, thankfully only a faulty valve which would be easily replaced once the junction was accessed deep in the nacelles. That minor drama concluded, Spock was able to finally retire for the night, to engage in a successful rest period before they embarked on their new mission directive tomorrow, only ten hours behind schedule.

He had engaged in a brief time of meditation to cleanse his mind of the tension from the situation in Engineering, and had only just returned to full awareness, reaching for the evening's paperwork on his desktop, when his computer monitor chimed with an incoming transmission, accompanied by the whistle of the ship's intra-comm.

"Spock here."

_"Bridge, Mr. Spock, Lieutenant Granger here. Sir, there's a comm for you on Channel Seven."_

Interesting; that was the channel reserved for officers' private communications, anything not related to starship business. "Put it through, Lieutenant."

_"Aye, sir."_

His monitor blinked into life a moment later, revealing the be-freckled features of a familiar youngling human, startlingly up close before they backed away slowly; the child must be slightly unfamiliar with that particular brand of mainstream technology used aboard the transport ship.

He raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and was met with a grin and a wave. "Hi, Mr. Spock!"

"Good evening, young one. Are you well?"

"I'm good." The child wriggled in place, obviously making himself comfortable in the chair before the computer monitor. "How're you?"

An interesting inquiry, one humans continually insisted upon making despite its vagueness; he believed the term was _small talk_. "I am functional," he replied, and set aside the paperwork he most likely would not finish tonight. "I take it you are settled for the evening aboard the transport?"

"Yeah." The child huffed lightly, blowing a lock of hair out of his face with an odd whistling sound. Peter glanced over one shoulder before turning back to the screen, nose scrunching. "Uncle Jim's already asleep, an' it's only like 2130!"

This was welcome news; that the captain would be sleeping at such an early hour, especially while in the company of an energetic child, meant he had given in to the demands of his exhaustion at last.

"Your uncle has not been sleeping well lately, Peter. He requires the additional rest; will you be disturbing him by speaking with me?"

The boy shook his head, red curls flying. "Nope, he's like dead right now. They were runnin’ the cleaning bots right outside the door an hour ago and he never even moved."

Also welcome news; the captain was an exceedingly light sleeper as a general rule, as most starship captains were, for they must be ready for duty at a moment's notice. That he was so deeply asleep now, meant he had let down some of those duty-barriers and was allowing himself the rest needed.

"Very well, young one. What do you wish to speak about?"

"I dunno." Peter Kirk fidgeted for a moment, tracing an invisible pattern on the table.

"I doubt that is quite true, _t'kam'la_."

The child glanced up toward the screen, and offered him a scowl so familiar it left absolutely no doubt as to whom he was related.

"Emotional displays will not assist you in reaching your goals, child. I am here to help, if I can. But you must use your words."

A sigh, and the boy slid down in his seat a few inches, eyes flicking back toward the monitor. "I have to decide where to go when we get back to Earth, and I dunno what to do," the child admitted finally, looking far more weary and sad than any child should ever have to be.

Spock steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair. "What are your choices, Peter?"

"I have to either go live with my Gran'ma Kirk, and I, like, don't even remember her. Or else I can go live with Andrew 'n' Jacob…"

"And?" he prompted gently.

"And I don't wanna go back at all – I want to stay on Deneva!" The child's eyes welled up with tears. "I just want to go home…"

Spock sighed silently; this was certainly not his area of expertise, but it would be heartless indeed to ignore a grieving child, and he had told the boy to contact him if he needed to. Such a youngling should not have to make such decisions, at such an age; but unfortunately, life rarely was fair, even to those most undeserving.

"I understand, _t'kam'la_ , what it is like to be unable to return home," he spoke quietly. "It is not a pleasant feeling, but it is one many species must face at some point in their adolescence, for one reason or another."

Peter scrubbed a fist over his eyes, a fierce gesture also so reminiscent of another proud Kirk that it produced a physical pain in his chest.

"But you will find, that someday, you will have made another location as much a home as Deneva was, Peter. It does not seem logical right now, but I assure you it is nonetheless true."

"But how?" The child's woeful eyes fixed upon him with an almost desperate plea.

"Because, child. A home, is not a physical dwelling, not a structure made of duracrete or synthewood. A home is comprised of people; therefore, you must make your decision based upon those people whom you believe will assist you most throughout that process."

Blue eyes blinked at him for a moment in intense silence. Then the child tilted his head to one side, brows furrowed. "I guess that makes sense."

"Of a sort. It may not be logical, young one, but I have found it to be accurate nonetheless."

A sudden noise behind the boy, and a familiar face, lined with weariness, poked into view from beside the child's chair. "That's pretty deep emotional introspection from a Vulcan, Mr. Spock," James Kirk said with a tired smile.

"You're supposed to be sleepin'!"

The captain looked highly amused. "I don't recall you being in charge here, kiddo. And if anything, it's well past time for little boys to be in bed, not conference calling the acting captains of Federation starships."

Peter scowled. "He said I could if I needed to talk to somebody, Uncle Jim."

"So I did," Spock interjected calmly.

Kirk shot him a grateful look. "Then I stand corrected. But you still need to get to sleep, Peter. Wrap it up, then bathtime."

"'Kay. Thanks for talkin' to me, Mr. Spock."

"Of course, young one."

"Night." An energetic scampering of feet, and the noise of a closing door, likely to a washroom if the layout of the transport ship were similar to those he had been on in the past.

The captain exhaled slowly, and collapsed into the empty chair left by the child at the table. A half-empty cup of what looked like poorly-replicated tea was shoved haphazardly to one side, rocking precariously on the tabletop.

"How's the ship?"

"In the same condition as this morning, sir. You have no need to concern yourself over the _Enterprise_."

"I know." Kirk rubbed his eyes with both hands. "Sorry. I know you have things under control, I just can't get my brain to shut down yet."

"Perhaps by the end of the week, that will have changed."

"I hope so." Stifling a yawn, the man shook his head briefly and then straightened, looking at the monitor with a little more alertness. "Thanks for taking the time with Peter, Spock. It's…good for him to talk to someone other than me, about all this."

"Of course, sir."

"He's really taken a shine to you. I haven't heard about anything non-science related since we left, you know."

"The boy has a remarkable aptitude already for the scientific studies."

Kirk smiled briefly and toasted him with the tea-mug. "Well, you've been an excellent teacher."

Inclining his head in brief acknowledgment, Spock gave his captain a carefully scrutinizing look. "Perhaps you should follow your own advice to the child, sir. I regret that we disturbed your rest."

A slightly bitter smile curled the corner of the human's lips, and Spock suspected it was not due to the mechanical taste of cheap artificial tea. "It wasn't you, Mr. Spock. Unfortunately, neither of us or even Doctor McCoy's prescriptions can quite control what visits in our nightmares, can we."

"Not to my knowledge, sir. But Vulcans do not dream; I am by no means an expert in the field."

Kirk's eyebrow rose a fraction. "You really shouldn't try to half-truth someone whose cabin is right next to yours, Commander. I suppose it is the non-Vulcan half of you which is prey to this most unfortunate human weakness?"

"That which is entirely out of one's control is hardly a weakness, Captain." He met the human's incredulous look with a pointed eyebrow of his own. "In either of our species, sir."

He received a faint huff of rueful amusement. "As I said, Mr. Spock. You are an excellent teacher. I stand corrected."

"As you wish."

"Sounds like Peter's nearly done in there, so I will get back to bed, though," Kirk continued, again rubbing exhaustion-filled eyes. "Don't break my ship, Spock."

His eyebrows disappeared briefly into his fringe. "I have no wish to face your and Engineer Scott's combined wrath over such a situation, Captain."

Kirk flashed him a bright smile at last, the first genuine expression of anything resembling his former personality that Spock had seen for several days. It was like the Vulcan sun, bursting through a dry thunderstorm at the height of the arid season – shockingly pleasant, and very welcome. "Good. I'll see you in a week, Mr. Spock."

"Safe travels, Captain."

"Oh, and Spock."

He paused in the act of turning off the monitor. "Sir?"

The human's eyes softened. "I know enough colloquial Vulcan to translate the word _t'kam'la_. That…means a great deal to me. Once again, you prove yourself capable of the highest human kindness, and compassion." (2)

He almost protested, for the very idea was ridiculous; and besides – this human was fairly driving him to madness with his idiotic insistence on _keeping score_ , so to speak. But possibly there was one more thing, which he might do to help the man overcome these last emotional hurdles.

"I shall remind you of that, the next time you are checkmated within fifteen moves. _Sir_."

Peter Kirk was much alarmed upon exiting the bathroom cubicle to find his uncle choking on a supposedly harmless cup of herbal tea, but judging from the strangled laughter just before Spock shut off the video monitor, there was no permanent harm done to either human.

Before retiring for the night himself, he permitted for a brief moment the feeling of self-satisfaction over a job well done; to acknowledge that which is deserved is only logical, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The first of these would have been Edith Keeler, in City on the Edge of Forever; the second and third a very short time later here in Operation Annihilate, if we go by the time frame of episode air dates.  
> (2) The Vulcan word t'kam'la means a cherished student, or a student who is looked upon as a daughter or a son; what would be an unusually adoptive term of familial endearment for the situation.


	6. Chapter Six

**I. That one's family is not necessarily those beings to whom one is legally related**

One very unique ability Captain Kirk possessed, which had fascinated his First Officer from the very inception of their five-year mission, was the human's uncanny ability to ascertain intimate details about his ship without consulting the _Enterprise_ data-banks.

Spock had personally seen the captain regain consciousness in the _Enterprise_ 's brig (a very long, and overly complicated, story for another time) and demand the reasoning behind being put in a high-security cell – all without even opening his eyes to visually determine his location. Kirk shared something of Lieutenant-Commander Scott's eerie instinct of knowing when something was dangerously amiss in Engineering, though none knew the condition of the ship quite like their Chief Engineer; and at any given time, the captain could name within just a few seconds precisely where he was aboard and what the closest access junctions to that location were, despite the ship's considerable size. Call it captainal instinct, call it an almost ridiculously thorough knowledge of the _Enterprise_ 's schematics and inner workings; but whatever the reason, it was a quality which equal parts fascinated and baffled the ship's Chief Science Officer. Even Spock, with an eidetic memory and a scientific curiosity to match, did not quite see the point in cultivating such a complete knowledge of the ship's innermost workings, nor was he quite able to develop such an ability to the extent that this peculiar human apparently had.

It should not have been a surprise, therefore, when Kirk picked up on their recent activities only moments after beaming back aboard from Starbase Seventeen, the location to which the _Enterprise_ had returned to retrieve him eight days after his departure; one day later than their original plan, due to delays in the public transport schedule from Terra.

Spock had waited in the transporter room while Scott performed the beam-up, both to welcome the captain back and also to ensure that the Chief Engineer's reassurances regarding the machinery repairs were indeed accurate. Scott's tolerant eyeroll did not escape his notice, but he ignored the human expression as it did not seem to be a gesture of disrespect, more of exasperated fondness. Scott was the only human of his more-than-casual acquaintance who had remained aboard the _Enterprise_ after the captaincy switchover, and as such Spock was slightly more able to read (and, for that matter, tolerate) the man than he could the typical human crewman.

 _Slightly_ , being the operative word.

The transporter did appear to be perfectly operational, and indeed he had no real doubts on that point; Scott would never endanger the captain in any way. Kirk materialized a moment later in the shimmer of a dissipating pattern buffer, and soon was stepping off the transporter pad, small carry-on bag by his feet and another wrapped parcel under his arm.

"Welcome back, sir!"

"Thank you, Scotty." Spock noted that the smile reached the man's eyes, a good sign, and he looked markedly less ill than when he had departed a week prior. "It's good to be back. Mr. Spock."

"Captain. I trust your return voyage was uneventful?"

"It was, thankfully." Kirk paused in the act of stepping toward the transporter, and tilted his head, listening. "Is something wrong with the impulse engines, Scotty?"

Scott's eyes widened. "Uh…no, sir?"

Spock resisted the very human urge to shake his head, because the man was a terrible liar and even a Vulcan could do better. Besides, the captain could ferret out an untruth faster than any Starfleet computer program or truth serum, as many an unfortunate crewman had discovered within the first few weeks of their mission.

Kirk carefully set his parcel down on the transporter console, and then leaned over it into Scott's personal space. "Are you answering my question with a question, Mr. Scott," he said dangerously.

"Well, sir, y'see…" Scott cast his First Officer a helpless look, obviously begging for assistance.

"Captain, we were forced into a minor altercation with a renegade pirate vessel in the Phoenician Nebula, as you suspected might occur," Spock smoothly interjected, taking pity on the poor engineer. "In the process, we sustained minor damage to the impulse engines, resulting in a power drain which is currently being repaired while we are in orbit around Starbase Seventeen."

Kirk's eyebrows climbed slightly. "Is that Vulcan understatement, or an accurate assessment, Mr. Scott?"

"Well, Cap'n, I would say 'twas fairly accurate. Sir."

"Hmm." Obviously, the man was letting the matter go, for the present. "As long as she's still in one piece, gentlemen."

"Well, there is –"

" _Mr. Scott_. I believe the captain requires his luggage taken to his cabin while he makes his way to the Bridge; perhaps you might call for a yeoman to do so?"

Scott swallowed. "Aye, sir. I'll see to it m'self."

Spock exhaled slowly, and turned from the console to see the captain watching him curiously. "Sir?"

"Walk with me, Spock?"

"Of course, Captain."

The fact that the man could identify an irregularity in the impulse engine flow just by listening, but failed to notice that he'd been beamed up to transporter room three, the most remote of their transporter rooms, was indication that while the trip had been a step in the right direction, the captain was still not quite himself.

"So, pirates?" Kirk asked conversationally, as they moved toward the transporter room doors.

"Yes, sir." Spock hesitated before triggering the door sensors, for the first time uncertain about the wisdom of the next few minutes' preparations. "They have been dealt with satisfactorily, and the reports are awaiting your perusal."

"I wasn't worried." The captain smiled briefly, and almost unconsciously accepted his deference, moving first into the corridor. "Although I am looking forward to hearing – "

The words broke off abruptly as the doors slid open, and Spock nearly collided with the human's back as Kirk halted mid-sentence, actually taking a step backward out of total shock.

Because the long corridor outside was lined on both sides with colorful rows of scarlet and blue and gold.

From somewhere halfway down the corridor, a lieutenant in Science blues snapped out a hasty "'Tention!" when he saw the doors had opened, and the crew scrambled to a loose parade rest and grinned nearly as one at the surprised expression on their captain's face.

"Welcome back, sir," one brave young ensign piped up from near the front of the corridor, leaning forward slightly to be seen, and another waved nervously from halfway down the line.

Spock could tell that if it had been possible, the captain probably would have been a flight risk; this was why he had instructed Scott to beam the man up to transporter room three. As the most remote of the three rooms, it was at a dead-end corridor, and the captain would be forced to walk the corridor if he wished to ever leave the room.

Now, he could tell that Kirk was uncomfortable with the attention, but was not going to let his crew know, after the trouble they had gone through to welcome him back. Spock had gambled upon that being the outcome, as he knew Kirk's character well – and he had not been wrong. The man summoned a smile that was only half-forced, and set off down the corridor, pausing for a moment with those who wanted to speak with him and smiling and nodding to most, who only wanted to stand in a show of moral support. The corridor branched off toward Engineering halfway down, and Spock saw those who had already spoken to the captain leave by those junctions, no doubt to replace some of their fellows who had not been able to leave their posts.

With these activities, it was a full twenty minutes before the captain made it through the three corridors which lay between transporter room three and the primary turbolift, where he said goodbye to the last of the Science personnel with a smile and a wave, leaving a very happy and relieved crew complement when the doors finally closed behind him and his XO.

Spock frowned slightly when the man then exhaled in a rush and leaned against the side of the lift, fingers pressing at his eyes in a gesture of painful exhaustion.

"Tell me you were not the one that set that up," Kirk muttered.

"I was not; I am aware that solitude is most likely your preferred state at the moment. However, when a group of junior officers approached me with the request that it be permitted upon your return, Captain – I thought it best, for their sake, to permit the gesture. I apologize for the liberty, sir, but I am aware that humans are in need of reassurance by their superiors on occasion. And, as Lieutenant Garrovick pointed out when discussing the possibility with me, you have been missed by your crew."

The captain glanced up, and gave him a rueful smile. "You've been a better captain than I have, the last couple weeks, Spock. Yes, you did the right thing. Thank you."

"Thanks are unnecessary, sir."

"Well, I'm going to give them to you anyway, so you may as well indulge the poor human his idiosyncrasies, Commander."

"Aye, sir."

The lift slowed, pinging to notify them of their stop on the Bridge.

"You didn't also tell the alpha shift they could have a surprise party or something for me, did you?" Kirk asked dryly, as the doors opened.

Spock gave him a look that clearly told what he thought of permitting that situation on the Bridge, and exited before the captain, which seemed to put his mind at ease. Kirk chuckled and followed him out, tugging absently at his tunic.

"Captain on the Bridge!"

The now-obsolete exclamation (Kirk had abolished it his first week aboard, saying the formality was both unnecessarily divisive between ranks and disruptive to efficiency) startled them both, but only for a moment; the room soon broke into a chorus of enthusiastic applause. The captain's face turned the color of Lieutenant Uhura's uniform before he smiled shyly, and nodded in greeting to his primary Bridge crew before moving toward the command dais.

"I believe you're in my seat, Mr. Sulu."

"Yes, _sir_." The young helmsman scrambled out of it and gladly fell back into his usual place at the pilot's station. "Welcome back, Captain."

"Thank you, Mr. Sulu. How have things been, gentlemen? Mr. Spock's been doing some space swashbuckling, I hear?"

Spock's eyeroll could be heard clearly from the science station, and that with his back turned.

Chekov cleared his throat. "It did get, how you say – a little hairy, Keptin. But the Commander soon showed the pirates you do not want to mess with the _Enterprise_."

"Did he now."

" _Da_. It was glorious."

"Mr. Chekov, I believe you were supposed to have correlated those data reports and sent them to my station over an hour ago. I am still waiting."

"Aye, sir." The young navigator turned a peculiar shade of crimson and hastily fell to work, shooting his Vulcan superior glances over his shoulder every few seconds.

Kirk stifled a laugh. "Speaking of, I'd like to see a damage report from that _glorious_ encounter, Mr. Spock."

Spock's look was carefully neutral. "The reports have already been filed with Starfleet Command, sir; an abbreviated copy is, as I said, awaiting perusal in your inbox. There was nothing of great interest to report."

"And by abbreviated, you mean…what, exactly?"

"Simply that there was no need to, I believe the expression is, bore you with the details?"

The captain did not miss the incredulous look that his pilot and helmsman shot each other. He slowly swiveled his chair toward the science station; arms folded, fingers tapping impatiently on his upper arm.

"Mr. Spock. Did you break my ship?"

Dark eyes blinked innocently at him. "Such an assumption would be illogical, Captain, as you can see that the _Enterprise_ is perfectly functional."

"Mmhmm." Kirk's look was distinctly unimpressed. "You know, gentlemen, that I have a way of –"

 _"McCoy to Bridge,"_ the intercom blared angrily beside them.

Highly amused at the conversation going on below her, Uhura leaned over and clicked the receiving switch. "Bridge, Lieutenant Uhura here. What is it, Doctor?"

_"Lieutenant, how long've we got 'til the captain beams back aboard? I'm not gonna get Reynolds out of here for another hour or so, he had a bad reaction to the very last inoculation. And he was the one who was supposed to be space-walking for Scotty to fix the fracture in the Observation Dome."_

"The WHAT?"

_"Scotty's not answerin' me in Engineering, Masters said something about him still being in Transporter Room Three. But y'know Jim'll have a cow if he finds out before we can get it sealed..."_

Spock sighed and reached over the library console to the communications channel, ignoring the spluttering from the command seat. "Doctor. Mr. Scott is in the transporter room because the captain beamed aboard thirty minutes ago. He is currently on the Bridge, within hearing range of your communication."

Dead silence.

_"McCoy out."_

Spock's expression clearly told the entire bridge crew what the Vulcan opinion was of cowardice, but no amount of hailing could raise Sickbay for the next few minutes.

Sulu finally lost it, giggling like a lunatic with his head down on his sleeve.

"You fractured the _observation dome_? It's sixteen inches of reinforced _transparent_ _tritanium_ – how does that even _happen_?!"

"They were _wery_ angry pirates," Chekov said solemnly.

The ensign working the engineering station choked on his coffee, hastily turning his attention to the output relays when a Vulcan glare sliced his direction.

"Is there anything else you conveniently forgot to tell me, categorized under that 'minimal damage' report, Commander?"

"Negative, Captain."

Kirk's gaze narrowed at something in the tone. "Anything you _purposely_ forgot to tell me?"

Spock looked suspiciously cagey.

"Did we have any casualties?"

"Negative."

"Do we still have the necessary parts to run the ship, Mr. Spock?"

"Of course, Captain."

"And the damage is being repaired before we leave this starbase."

"Yes, sir."

"And I am not going to, say, find a tribble in my sock drawer or something when I return to my cabin?"

"Really, sir."

"Well, then." The captain spun around in his seat, vaguely reminiscent to Spock of a child playing with an adult's desk chair, simply revolving it in a rapid circle for his own amusement. "Outside of the, you know, _crack in the observation dome_ , I'd say you took pretty good care of her, gentlemen. I'm in a forgiving mood, this evening."

Sulu grinned. "It's good to have you back aboard, Captain. And yourself again, sir, if you don't mind my saying so."

Kirk looked briefly surprised, and then smiled, settling back in his chair. "Not at all, Mr. Sulu. I appreciate the sentiment, and your candor. I am aware I was not the easiest person to live with, during the last few weeks – and for that, I owe my primary command crew an apology."

"You've nothing to apologize for, Captain," Uhura spoke up softly from behind them, and Kirk flicked a grateful glance over his shoulder, meeting her eyes with a further apology unspoken between them; she had been the unfortunate recipient of his short temper more than once during those tense days of the Deneva mission disaster. He was a fortunate man indeed, to have forged such relationships as he had, during this first year of their projected five.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk looked up as a yeoman approached him with a very tall stack of data-padds, no doubt needing signature after a week of absence, and met the young man's hopeful look with a rueful smile of his own. "Might as well get it over with, Mr…Oc'thrae, is it? Hand them over."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"You're a new transfer, from 'Base Seventeen, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. Just transferred in yesterday evening, Captain."

The yeoman's eyes were wide with surprise, that the captain knew his name already despite being absent from the ship for a week; he had no way of knowing that one of Kirk's habits was to review all incoming transfers for at least a week beforehand until he could at least match names with faces – especially those who were not Terran-born, as this young half-Andorian was.

"Enjoying your stay so far? Crew treating you well?"

The young man looked slightly scandalized at the idea of the situation being otherwise, his skin flushing a delicate shade of blue. "Of course, Captain!"

"Good. Make sure you tell Lieutenant Kalov in SS&R if you require anything other than standard requisitions due to your hybrid physiology; I don't want to hear it from McCoy rather than you, if your health suffers from our unfortunately specist environmental conditions aboard ship."

Kirk glanced up over the top of the padd he was signing, in time to see Oc'thrae's antennae nod vigorously, obviously pleased at the attention. "Will do, sir."

"Excellent. There, I believe that should suffice for now, unless you've another pile for me hidden around somewhere." The yeoman shook his head vigorously, taking the stack of padds back from his captain with a smile. "Dismissed, then. And welcome to the _Enterprise_ , Mr. Oc'thrae."

As the young man scuttled into the turbolift, eager to be on his way, Kirk stifled an exhausted yawn and aimlessly revolved the central chair to survey the Bridge and his crew, all working busily but with an air of relaxed comfort which had been missing the last time he had been in command here. The tranquil feeling of _home_ was sufficient to put his mind at ease, safe where he belonged, and he barely noticed when he started to drift mentally, eyes on the star-scape before them, the starbase's pristine buildings and twinkling lights slowly revolving in and out of sights as they orbited its various structures.

It was the slight vibration of his chair shaking, which suddenly jolted him out of what had to be a very embarrassing impromptu nap right in the middle of his own Bridge. He shot upright in what he hoped was less of a drastic gesture than it felt like, eyes flying open, and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him falling asleep on duty, so to speak – but his crew were still quietly working all around him, thank goodness.

All except one, who – of course – had been the one to thankfully come to his rescue and ensure he did not embarrass himself in front of his crew the first hour he was back aboard.

He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, and felt the color rising in his neck under the calm scrutiny of a raised Vulcan eyebrow.

"Yes, I know, Mr. Spock," he muttered gracelessly, and started to stand. Spock's expression changed to one of mild alarm as his balance teetered slightly, but he shook his head in reassurance, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. "Mr. Sulu. Think you can handle the conn for the rest of the evening?"

"Of course, sir. Good night, Captain." Sulu's words were echoed in quick order by the rest of the crew, and none of them appeared in the least surprised to see Spock following him from the Bridge; perhaps his little nap hadn't been as unnoticed as he thought.

"Dinner, Mr. Spock?" he inquired, as they exited the lift onto Deck Five.

"You are fatigued, Captain. Perhaps another time."

"I can't argue with that, unfortunately." He managed a passing nod and smile to a young lieutenant in Engineering reds who was hurrying from a cabin near the lift, before the expression fell away into exhaustion once again as they approached the higher officers' quarters. Both doors opened at their approach, but Kirk gestured at his cabin before Spock could bid him goodnight. "But at least come in for a moment, Spock, I have something I want to show you."

"As you wish, sir."

The door closed behind them, and Spock was once again intrigued by the immediate vanishing of what had evidently been a flawless performance for the sake of the crew; the captain-persona disappearing like it had never existed – and here, this was the man he had seen leave the _Enterprise_ eight days previously. Certainly not in the same emotional or physical state, a marked improvement on both; but nonetheless still a grieving man.

It was oddly flattering, to think that the human felt that he no longer need pretend to be otherwise, in his presence.

"Captain," he spoke after a long, somewhat fragile silence, during which the captain did nothing more than fidget with items on his desk, moving them about aimlessly. What was the phrase, humans used in these instances, one which made no logical sense to a Vulcan but was the standardly accepted sentiment? "How are you doing?"

Kirk's eyes widened, as he froze in the act of setting down a small tower of dicta-padds. The man slowly turned and leaned against the desk, arms folded loosely across his chest, and relaxed somewhat. "Small talk, Mr. Spock? From you?"

Spock gave the minutest of eyebrow-shrugs, acknowledging but not admitting to both the dismal failure and the sentiment behind it.

"Well…" Kirk sighed, dragged a weary hand over his face. "Better than I was, Spock. And that's due in no small part to your magic-working this past week so I have you to thank for that much."

"And the boy?"

"Peter seemed to be okay, actually, when I left New York. He said to tell you hello, and to ask if you minded if he wrote to you occasionally about 'science stuff'." A small smile quirked the captain's lips. "I took the liberty of assuring him you would not, Mr. Spock; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. The child's curiosity and intelligence should be encouraged as much as possible."

Kirk nodded, somewhat absently. A sudden thought then occurred to Spock, one which he had not hitherto acknowledged. "Captain, were the two elder Kirk children close to their off-world father?" he asked quietly. He had not thought of the fact that Jim would have to bear that burden as well, the communicating of the news to the elder Kirk boys, left behind on Terra when their father and step-mother moved to the Deneva system.

The captain winced, and it did not escape Spock's notice that the man dodged the question with characteristic ease. "That wasn't the most pleasant visit, I will admit, although they were really wonderful about taking care of Peter even though they barely know him. He was only six when Sam and Aurelan left Terra, and they had just married then; Andrew and Jacob had only even met Peter a few times. But he wanted to stay with them instead of my mother, and they were willing to assume legal guardianship. The legal age of adulthood on Terra now is sixteen, that’s the minimum age of Starfleet academy cadet acceptance. But that’s so _young_ , they’re still just children themselves…"

"One might argue that after such events, they are no longer 'just children,' Captain."

"A very human sentiment, Mr. Spock," the captain answered lightly, but with a genuinely questioning look. "Have you been practicing while I was away?"

“Always, sir.”

Kirk smiled at that, and settled wearily into his chair at the small table where they were accustomed to playing Tri-D chess. Spock followed suit after a moment. He then noticed that the board was set up for play, though at a second look the pieces appeared different from the standard-issue set they always used, requisitioned from the quartermaster.

He lifted one of the black playing pieces and examined it with curiosity. The small rook he held appeared to be genuine wood, hand-carved if the slightly uneven texturing were any indication. The detailing was quite intricate, and the set had obviously taken a very long time to complete, done by hand. Spock as a musician admired art in all forms, and this type was a skill which he and most of his people did not possess.

After a moment he set the piece back on the board, and looked up to see Kirk watching him.

"A gift, I assume, Captain?" he inquired, further lifting a white knight to examine.

Kirk's eyes softened. "Not quite," he said quietly.

Spock halted his scrutiny, and carefully replaced the piece in its original position. It was no great feat of logic to extrapolate the items' previous ownership, or why they only now had been put into place in the captain's quarters. "You inherited your enjoyment of the game not from your father, but from your brother."

It had been a statement, not a question. The brief look of surprise on the human's face soon faded into a fond amusement. "You are quite certain you are only _touch_ -telepathic, Mr. Spock? Of course you are quite right. Sam was my teacher, beating the pants off me from the time I was five years old. Taught me everything I know about the game; so every time I annoy you with an unconventional strategy, you can blame him for that."

Spock's eyes flicked briefly back to the playing pieces. "And these?"

"These were his," Kirk said, picking up the white queen and running a finger along the tip of her crown. "Wood-carving was something he picked up in college, I had no idea he still had an interest in it – but I found this in the house. Peter has no interest in the game, and he was more than happy to let me take it."

Spock was uncertain the purpose of this conversation, unless simply talking about it was helpful to the captain's state of mind; if that were the case, he was more than willing to listen for as long as needed. But if not, he was quite at a loss as to how to proceed.

"Are you not too fatigued for a game at this time, Captain?" he inquired cautiously.

"Mr. Spock, I couldn't strategize my way out of a paper bag right now. That's…not what I was getting at."

"Sir?" He repressed all but the thinnest thread of impatience from his voice; he would never understand humans' predilection for vagueness when direct communication was infinitely preferable.

A flat wooden box, intricately carved in a delicate floral pattern, was pushed hesitantly across the table; upon opening it, he saw a series of indentations in faded dark-green velvet which were obviously meant to house the playing pieces in question.

Kirk cleared his throat. "I'd like for you to have it, Spock," he said softly, tracing the outline of a carving with one finger.

Completely taken aback, he could only stare at the man for a moment in some consternation, frantically debating in the back of his mind the correct protocol for such a situation.

To his surprise, the captain laughed, and patted his arm briefly before sitting back in his chair, legs stretched out before him. "Mr. Spock, you look completely spooked – has no one ever given you a gift before?"

Direct questions, he could answer. "Not of this magnitude, sir."

A sandy eyebrow rose slightly. "Spock, they're just a few pieces of carved wood."

"Not to you, Jim."

The white queen wobbled as she met an unsteady resting place on the highest tier of the board. Kirk sighed ruefully. "Your emotional perception is becoming increasingly accurate, Mr. Spock. It can be quite annoying, you know."

"I would _not_ know, sir," Spock pointed out dryly, though not without a trace of humor.

" _Touché_." The captain looked up at him over the board. "However, my request stands. I would ask that you consider accepting it as a gift, from me and Peter. Of thanks, if you will, for what you've done the past two weeks."

Kirk stood, obviously intending to end the conversation, and Spock followed suit, knowing that exhaustion had to be pulling at the human's last reserves of energy. He looked down at the chessboard for a few moments, eyes roving over the fine detailing of the wood-work on the playing pieces, and was vaguely aware of the captain moving to his dresser to remove sleeping-clothes from a drawer.

"Jim," he said quietly, as the man made to enter the adjoining bathroom.

The captain glanced questioningly over his shoulder.

Spock hoped that the bluntness of his words would not be too impersonal, but he did not wish the man to in future regret a decision made out of pure emotion. This was an unnecessary gesture, and one which Kirk most likely did not even himself understand his reasons for making; some unnecessary sense of obligation was the primary catalyst, and that was unacceptable.

"While I am…honored by the gift, would you not prefer to keep such a personal item, within the remains of your family?"

Triggered by motion, the lavatory doors opened, spilling soft light into the room. Kirk paused for a moment, silhouetted in the doorway.

"I _am_ , Spock," he said simply, and the door shut on his smile.


End file.
